MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 


BY    STEPHEN    CRANE 


EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
VINCENT  STARRETT 


THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 


PUBLISHERS          ::  ::         NEW  YORK 


MEN.  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

COPYBIOHT,  1921,  BY 

BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  Inc. 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THB  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
FOB  THE  MODERN  LIBBABT,  INC.,  BY  H.  WOLFF 


NOTE 

UNDERGRAD. 

A  NUMBER  of  the  tales  and  sketches  here  brougnr  together 
appear  now  for  the  first  time  between  covers;  others  for  the 
first  time  between  covers  in  this  country.  All  have  been 
gathered  from  out-of-print  volumes  and  old  magazine  files. 

"The  Open  Boat,"  one  of  Stephen  Crane's  finest  stories,  is 
used  with  the  courteous  permission  of  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Co.,  holders  of  the  copyright.  Its  companion  masterpiece, 
"The  Blue  Hotel,"  because  of  copyright  complications,  has 
had  to  be  omitted,  greatly  to  the  regret  of  the  editor. 

After  the  death  of  Stephen  Crane,  a  haphazard  and  un- 
discriminating  gathering  of  his  earlier  tales  and  sketches  ap 
peared  in  London  under  the  misleading  title,  "Last  Words." 
From  this  volume,  now  rarely  met  with,  a  number  of  charac 
teristic  minor  works  have  been  selected,  and  these  will  be 
new  to  Crane's  American  admirers;  as  follows:  "The  Reluc 
tant  Voyagers,"  "The  End  of  the  Battle,"  "The  Upturned 
Face,"  "An  Episode  of  War,"  "A  Desertion,"  "Four  Men  in 
a  Cave,"  "The  Mesmeric  Mountain,"  "London  Impressions," 
"The  Snake." 

Three  of  our  present  collection,  printed  by  arrange 
ment,  appeared  in  the  London  (1898)  edition  of  "The  Open 
Boat  and  Other  Stories,"  published  by  William  Heinemann, 
but  did  not  occur  in  the  American  volume  of  that  title.  They 
are  "An  Experiment  in  Misery,"  "The  Duel  that  was  not 
Fought,"  and  "The  Pace  of  Youth." 

For  the  rest,  "A  Dark  Brown  Dog,"  "A  Tent  in  Agony," 
and  "The  Scotch  Express,"  are  here  printed  for  the  first  time 
in  a  book. 

For  the  general  title  of  the  present  collection,  the  editor 
alone  is  responsible. 

V.  S. 


MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 


CONTENTS 

PAGF 

STEPHEN  CRANE:    An  Estimate 

THE  OPEN  BOAT 23 

THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS 59 

THE  END  OF  THE  BATTLE 87 

THE  UPTURNED  FACE 97 

AN  EPISODE  OF  WAR 1°5 

AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY 113 

THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT 129 

A  DESERTION 141 

A   DARK-BROWN    DOG 149 

THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH 161 

SULLIVAN  COUNTY  SKETCHES 

A  TENT  IN  AGONY 177 

FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE 183 

THE  MESMERIC  MOUNTAIN 193 

THE  SNAKE .  201 

LONDON  IMPRESSIONS        209 

THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS 229 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE 


STEPHEN  CRANE:     AN  ESTIMATE 

IT  hardly  profits  us  to  conjecture  what  Stephen  Crane 
might  have  written  about  the  World  War  had  he  lived.  Cer 
tainly,  he  would  have  been  in  it,  in  one  capacity  or  another. 
No  man  had  a  greater  talent  for  war  and  personal  adventure, 
nor  a  finer  art  in  describing  it.  Few  writers  of  recent  times 
could  so  well  describe  the  poetry  of  motion  as  manifested  in 
the  surge  and  flow  of  battle,  or  so  well  depict  the  isolated 
deed  of  heroism  in  its  stark  simplicity  and  terror. 

To  such  an  undertaking  as  Henri  Barbusse's  "Under  Fire," 
that  powerful,  brutal  book,  Crane  would  have  brought  an 
analytical  genius  almost  clairvoyant.  He  possessed  an  un 
canny  vision ;  a  descriptive  ability  photographic  in  its  clarity 
and  its  care  for  minutiae — yet  unphotographic  in  that  the  big 
central  thing  often  is  omitted,  to  be  felt  rather  than  seen  in 
the  occult  suggestion  of  detail.  Crane  would  have  seen  and 
depicted  the  grisly  horror  of  it  all,  as  did  Barbusse,  but  also 
he  would  have  seen  the  glory  and  the  ecstasy  and  the  won 
der  of  it,  and  over  that  his  poetry  would  have  been  spread. 

While  Stephen  Crane  was  an  excellent  psychologist,  he  was 
also  a  true  poet.  Frequently  his  prose  was  finer  poetry  than 
his  deliberate  essays  in  poesy.  His  most  famous  book,  "The 
Red  Badge  of  Courage,"  is  essentially  a  psychological  study, 
a  delicate  clinical  dissection  of  the  soul  of  a  recruit,  but  it 
is  also  a  tour  de  force  of  the  imagination.  When  he  wrote 
the  book  he  had  never  seen  a  battle:  he  had  to  place  himself 

9 


10  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

in  the  situation  of  another.  Years  later,  when  he  came  out 
of  the  Greco-Turkish  fracas,  he  remarked  to  a  friend:  "  The 
Red  Badge'  is  all  right." 

Written  by  a  youth  who  had  scarcely  passed  his  majority, 
this  book  has  been  compared  with  Tolstoy's  "Sebastopol" 
and  Zola's  "La  Debacle,"  and  with  some  of  the  short  stories 
of  Ambrose  Bierce.  The  comparison  with  Bierce's  work  is 
legitimate;  with  the  other  books,  I  think,  less  so.  Tolstoy 
and  Zola  see  none  of  the  traditional  beauty  of  battle;  they 
apply  themselves  to  a  devoted — almost  obscene — study  of 
corpses  and  carnage  generally;  and  they  lack  the  American's 
instinct  for  the  rowdy  commonplace,  the  natural,  the  irrever 
ent,  which  so  materially  aids  his  realism.  In  "The  Red 
Badge  of  Courage"  invariably  the  tone  is  kept  down  where 
one  expects  a  height:  the  most  heroic  deeds  are  accomplished 
with  studied  awkwardness. 

Crane  was  an  obscure  free-lance  when  he  wrote  this  book. 
The  effort,  he  says,  somewhere,  "was  born  of  pain — despair, 
almost."  It  was  a  better  piece  of  work,  however,  for  that  very 
reason,  as  Crane  knew.  It  is  far  from  flawless.  It  has  been 
remarked  that  it  bristles  with  as  many  grammatical  errors  as 
with  bayonets;  but  it  is  a  big  canvas,  and  I  am  certain  that 
many  of  Crane's  deviations  from  the  rules  of  polite  rhetoric 
were  deliberate  experiments,  looking  to  effect — effect  which, 
frequently,  he  gained. 

Stephen  Crane  "arrived"  with  this  book.  There  are,  of 
course,  many  who  never  have  heard  of  him,  to  this  day,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  he  was  very  much  talked  of.  That 
was  in  the  middle  nineties,  following  publication  of  "The  Red 
Badge  of  Courage,"  although  even  before  that  he  had  occa- 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE  11 

sioned  a  brief  flurry  with  his  weird  collection  of  poems  called 
"The  Black  Riders  and  Other  Lines."  He  was  highly  praised, 
and  highly  abused  and  laughed  at;  but  he  seemed  to  be 
"made."  We  have  largely  forgotten  since.  It  is  a  way  we 
have. 

Personally,  I  prefer  his  short  stories  to  his  novels  and  his 
poems;  those,  for  instance,  contained  in  "The  Open  Boat," 
in  "Wounds  in  the  Rain,"  and  in  "The  Monster."  The  title- 
story  in  that  first  collection  is  perhaps  his  finest  piece  of  work. 
Yet  what  is  it?  A  truthful  record  of  an  adventure  of  his 
own  in  the  filibustering  days  that  preceded  our  war  with 
Spain;  the  faithful  narrative  of  the  voyage  of  an  open  boat, 
manned  by  a  handful  of  shipwrecked  men.  But  Captain 
Bligh's  account  of  his  small  boat  journey,  after  he  had  been 
sent  adrift  by  the  mutineers  of  the  Bounty,  seems  tame  in 
comparison,  although  of  the  two  the  English  sailor's  voyage 
was  the  more  perilous. 

In  "The  Open  Boat"  Crane  again  gains  his  effects  by  keep 
ing  down  the  tone  where  another  writer  might  have  attempted 
"fine  writing"  and  have  been  lost.  In  it  perhaps  is  most 
strikingly  evident  the  poetic  cadences  of  his  prose:  its  rhyth 
mic,  monotonous  flow  is  the  flow  of  the  gray  water  that  laps 
at  the  sides  of  the  boat,  that  rises  and  recedes  in  cruel  waves, 
"like  little  pointed  rocks."  It  is  a  desolate  picture,  and  the 
tale  is  one  of  our  greatest  short  stories.  In  the  other  tales 
that  go  to  make  up  the  volume  are  wild,  exotic  glimpses  of 
Latin-America.  I  doubt  whether  the  color  and  spirit  of  that 
region  have  been  better  rendered  than  in  Stephen  Crane's 
curious,  distorted,  staccato  sentences. 

"War  Stories"  is  the  laconic  sub-title  of  "Wounds  in  the 


12  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Rain."  It  was  not  war  on  a  grand  scale  that  Crane  saw  in 
the  Spanish- American  complication,  h\  which  he  participated 
as  a  war  correspondent;  no  such  war  as  the  recent  horror. 
But  the  occasions  for  personal  heroism  were  no  fewer  than 
always,  and  the  opportunities  for  the  exercise  of  such  powers 
of  trained  and  appreciative  understanding  and  sympathy  as 
Crane  possessed,  were  abundant.  For  the  most  part,  these 
tales  are  episodic,  reports  of  isolated  instances — the  profanely 
humorous  experiences  of  correspondents,  the  magnificent 
courage  of  signalmen  under  fire,  the  forgotten  adventure  of  a 
converted  yacht — but  all  are  instinct  with  the  red  fever  of 
war,  and  are  backgrounded  with  the  choking  smoke  of  battle. 
Never  again  did  Crane  attempt  the  large  canvas  of  "The  Red 
Badge  of  Courage."  Before  he  had  seen  war,  he  imagined 
its  immensity  and  painted  it  with  the  fury  and  fidelity  of  a 
Verestchagin ;  when  he  was  its  familiar,  he  singled  out  its 
minor,  crimson  passages  for  briefer  but  no  less  careful  deline 
ation. 

In  this  book,  again,  his  sense  of  the  poetry  of  motion  is 
vividly  evident.  We  see  men  going  into  action,  wave  on 
wave,  or  m  scattering  charges;  we  hear  the  clink  of  their  ac 
coutrements  and  their  breath  whistling  through  their  teeth. 
They  are  not  men  going  into  action  at  all,  but  men  going 
about  their  business,  which  at  the  moment  happens  to  be  the 
capture  of  a  trench.  They  are  neither  heroes  nor  cowards. 
Their  faces  reflect  no  particular  emotion  save,  perhaps,  a 
desire  to  get  somewhere.  They  are  a  line  of  men  running 
for  a  train,  or  following  a  fire  engine,  or  charging  a  trench. 
It  is  a  relentless  picture,  ever  changing,  ever  the  same.  But 
it  contains  poetry,  too,  in  rich,  memorable  passages. 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE  13 

In  "The  Monster  and  Other  Stories,"  there  is  a  tale  called 
"The  Blue  Hotel."  A  Swede,  its  central  figure,  toward  the 
end  manages  to  get  himself  murdered.  Crane's  description 
of  it  is  just  as  casual  as  that.  The  story  fills  a  dozen  pages 
of  the  book;  but  the  social  injustice  of  the  whole  world  is 
hinted  in  that  space;  the  upside-downness  of  creation,  right 
prostrate,  wrong  triumphant, — a  mad,  crazy  world.  The  in 
cident  of  the  murdered  Swede  is  just  part  of  the  backwash 
of  it  all,  but  it  is  an  illuminating  fragment.  The  Swede  was 
slain,  not  by  the  gambler  whose  knife  pierced  his  thick  hide: 
he  was  the  victim  of  a  condition  for  which  he  was  no  more 
to  blame  than  the  man  who  stabbed  him.  Stephen  Crane 
thus  speaks  through  the  lips  of  one  of  the  characters: — 

"We  are  all  in  it!  This  poor  gambler  isn't  even 
a  noun.  He  is  a  kind  of  an  adverb.  Every  sin  is 
the  result  of  a  collaboration.  We,  five  of  us,  have 
collaborated  in  the  murder  of  this  Swede.  Usually 
there  are  from  a  dozen  to  forty  women  really  in 
volved  in  every  murder,  but  in  this  case  it  seems 
to  be  only  five  men — you,  I,  Johnnie,  old  Scully, 
and  that  fool  of  an  unfortunate  gambler  came 
merely  as  a  culmination,  the  apex  of  a  human  move 
ment,  and  gets  all  the  punishment." 

And  then  this  typical  and  arresting  piece  of  irony: — 

"The  corpse  of  the  Swede,  alone  in  the  saloon, 
had  its  eyes  fixed  upon  a  dreadful  legend  that 
dwelt  atop  of  the  cash-machine:  'This  registers  the 
amount  of  your  purchase.'  " 

In  "The  Monster,"  the  ignorance,  prejudice  and  cruelty  of 


i4  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

an  entire  community  are  sharply  focussed.  The  realism  is 
painful ;  one  blushes  for  mankind.  But  while  this  story  really 
belongs  in  the  volume  called  "Whilomville  Stories,"  it  is 
properly  left  out  of  that  series.  The  Whilomville  stories  are 
pure  comedy,  and  "The  Monster"  is  a  hideous  tragedy. 

Whilomville  is  any  obscure  little  village  one  may  happen 
to  think  of.  To  write  of  it  with  such  sympathy  and  under 
standing,  Crane  must  have  done  some  remarkable  listening 
in  Boyville.  The  truth  is,  of  course,  he  was  a  boy  himself — 
"a  wonderful  boy,"  somebody  called  him — and  was  possessed 
of  the  boy  mind.  These  tales  are  chiefly  funny  because  they 
are  so  true — boy  stories  written  for  adults;  a  child,  I  sup 
pose,  would  find  them  dull.  In  none  of  his  tales  is  his  curious 
understanding  of  human  moods  and  emotions  better  shown. 

A  stupid  critic  once  pointed  out  that  Crane,  in  his  search 
for  striking  effects,  had  been  led  into  "frequent  neglect  of 
the  time-hallowed  rights  of  certain  words,"  and  that  in  his 
pursuit  of  color  he  "falls  occasionally  into  almost  ludicrous 
mishap."  The  smug  pedantry  of  the  quoted  lines  is  suf 
ficient  answer  to  the  charges,  but  in  support  of  these  asser 
tions  the  critic  quoted  certain  passages  and  phrases.  He 
objected  to  cheeks  "scarred"  by  tears,  to  "dauntless"  statues, 
and  to  "terror-stricken"  wagons.  The  very  touches  of  poetic 
impressionism  that  largely  make  for  Crane's  greatness,  are 
cited  to  prove  him  an  ignoramus.  There  is  the  finest  of 
poetic  imagery  in  the  suggestions  subtly  conveyed  by  Crane's 
tricky  adjectives,  the  use  of  which  was  as  deliberate  with  him 
as  his  choice  of  a  subject.  But  Crane  was  an  imagist  before 
our  modern  imagists  were  known. 

This  unconventional  use  of  adjectives  is  marked  in  the 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE  15 

Whilomville  tales.  In  one  of  them  Crane  refers  to  the 
"solemn  odor  of  burning  turnips."  It  is  the  most  nearly 
perfect  characterization  of  burning  turnips  conceivable:  can 
anyone  improve  upon  that  "solemn  odor"? 

Stephen  Crane's  first  venture  was  "Maggie:  A  Girl  of  the 
Streets."  It  was,  I  believe,  the  first  hint  of  naturalism  hi 
American  letters.  It  was  not  a  best-seller;  it  offers  no  solu 
tion  of  life;  it  is  an  episodic  bit  of  slum  fiction,  ending  with 
the  tragic  finality  of  a  Greek  drama.  It  is  a  skeleton  of  a 
novel  rather  than  a  novel,  but  it  is  a  powerful  outline,  written 
about  a  life  Crane  had  learned  to  know  as  a  newspaper  re 
porter  in  New  York.  It  is  a  singularly  fine  piece  of  analysis, 
or  a  bit  of  extraordinarily  faithful  reporting,  as  one  may  pre 
fer;  but  not  a  few  French  and  Russian  writers  have  failed 
to  accomplish  in  two  volumes  what  Crane  achieved  in  two 
hundred  pages.  In  the  same  category  is  "George's  Mother," 
a  triumph  of  inconsequential  detail  piling  up  with  a  cumu 
lative  effect  quite  overwhelming. 

Crane  published  two  volumes  of  poetry  —  "The  Black 
Riders"  and  "War  is  Kind."  Their  appearance  in  print  was 
jeeringly  hailed;  yet  Crane  was  only  pioneering  in  the  free 
verse  that  is  to-day,  if  not  definitely  accepted,  at  least  more 
than  tolerated.  I  like  the  following  love  poem  as  well  as  any 
rhymed  and  conventionally  metrical  ballad  that  I  know:— 

"Should  the  wide  world  roll  away, 
Leaving  black  terror, 
Limitless  night, 

Nor  God,  nor  man,  nor  place  to  stand 
Would  be  to  me  essential, 
If  thou   and   thy  white  arms   were   there 
And  the  fall  to  doom  a  long  way." 


1 6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"If  war  be  kind,"  wrote  a  clever  reviewer,  when  the  second 
volume  appeared,  "then  Crane's  verse  may  be  poetry,  Beards- 
ley's  black  and  white  creations  may  be  art,  and  this  may  be 
called  a  book";— a  smart  summing  up  that  is  cherished  by 
cataloguers  to  this  day,  hi  describing  the  volume  for  collec 
tors.  Beardsley  needs  no  defenders,  and  it  is  fairly  certain 
that  the  clever  reviewer  had  not  read  the  book,  for  certainly 
Crane  had  no  illusions  about  the  kindness  of  war.  The  title- 
poem  of  the  volume  is  an  amazingly  beautiful  satire  which 
answers  all  criticism. 

"Do  not  weep,  maiden,  for  war  is  kind. 
Because  your  lover  threw  wild  hands  toward  the  sky 
And  the  affrighted  steed  ran  on  alone, 
Do  not  weep. 
War  is  kind. 

"Hoarse,  booming  drums  of  the  regiment, 
Little  souls  who  thirst  for  fight, 
These  men  were  born  to  drill  and  die. 
The  unexplained  glory  flies  above  them, 
Great  is  the  battle-god,  and  his  kingdom— 

A  field  where  a  thousand  corpses  lie. 
****** 

"Mother  whose  heart  hung  humble  as  a  button 
On  the  bright  splendid  shroud  of  your  son, 
Do  not  weep. 
War  is  kind." 

Poor  Stephen  Crane!  Like  most  geniuses,  he  had  his 
weaknesses  and  his  failings;  like  many,  if  not  most,  geniuses, 
he  was  ill.  He  died  of  tuberculosis,  tragically  young.  But 
what  a  comrade  he  must  have  been,  with  his  extraordinary 
vision,  his  keen,  sardonic  comment,  his  fearlessness  and  his 
failings! 

Just  a  glimpse  of  Crane's  last  days  is  afforded  by  a  letter 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE  17 

written  from  England  by  Robert  Barr,  his  friend— Robert 
Barr,  who  collaborated  with  Crane  in  "The  O'  Ruddy,"  a 
rollicking  tale  of  old  Ireland,  or,  rather,  who  completed  it  at 
Crane's  death,  to  satisfy  his  friend's  earnest  request.  Th<* 
letter  is  dated  from  Billhead,  Woldingham,  Surrey,  June  8, 
1900,  and  runs  as  follows: — 

"MY  DEAR 

"I  was  delighted  to  hear  from  you,  and  was  much 
interested  to  see  the  article  on  Stephen  Crane  you 
sent  me.  It  seems  to  me  the  harsh  judgment  of  an 
unappreciative,  commonplace  person  on  a  man  of 
genius.  Stephen  had  many  qualities  which  lent 
themselves  to  misapprehension,  but  at  the  core  he 
was  the  finest  of  men,  generous  to  a  fault,  with 
something  of  the  old-time  recklessness  which  used 
to  gather  in  the  ancient  literary  taverns  of  London. 
I  always  fancied  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  revisited  the 
earth  as  Stephen  Crane,  trying  again,  succeeding 
again,  failing  again,  and  dying  ten  years  sooner 
than  he  did  on  the  other  occasion  of  his  stay  on 
earth. 

"When  your  letter  came  I  had  just  returned  from 
Dover,  where  I  stayed  four  days  to  see  Crane  off 
for  the  Black  Forest.  There  was  a  thin  thread  of 
hope  that  he  might  recover,  but  to  me  he  looked  like 
a  man  already  dead.  When  he  spoke,  or,  rather, 
whispered,  there  was  all  the  accustomed  humor  in 
his  sayings.  I  said  to  him  that  I  would  go  over  to 
the  Schwarzwald  in  a  few  weeks,  when  he  was  get 
ting  better,  and  that  we  would  take  some  convales- 


MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

cent  rambles  together.  As  his  wife  was  listening 
he  said  faintly:  'I'll  look  forward  to  that,'  but  he 
smiled  at  me,  and  winked  slowly,  as  much  as  to  say: 
'You  damned  humbug,  you  know  I'll  take  no  more 
rambles  in  this  world.'  Then,  as  if  the  train  of 
thought  suggested  what  was  looked  on  before  as  the 
crisis  of  his  illness,  he  murmured:  'Robert,  when 
you  come  to  the  hedge — that  we  must  all  go  over- 
it  isn't  bad.  You  feel  sleepy — and — you  don't 
care.  Just  a  little  dreamy  curiosity — which  world 
you're  really  in — that's  all.' 

"To-morrow,  Saturday,  the  pth,  I  go  again  to 
Dover  to  meet  his  body.  He  will  rest  for  a  little 
while  in  England,  a  country  that  was  always  good 
to  him,  then  to  America,  and  his  journey  will  be 
ended. 

"I've  got  the  unfinished  manuscript  of  his  last 
novel  here  beside  me,  a  rollicking  Irish  tale,  dif 
ferent  from  anything  he  ever  wrote  before.  Stephen 
thought  I  was  the  only  person  who  could  finish  it, 
and  he  was  too  ill  for  me  to  refuse.  I  don't  know 
•what  to  do  about  the  matter,  for  I  never  could  work 
up  another  man's  ideas.  Even  your  vivid  imagina 
tion  could  hardly  conjecture  anything  more  ghastly 
than  the  dying  man,  lying  by  an  open  window  over 
looking  the  English  channel,  relating  in  a  sepulchral 
whisper  the  comic  situations  of  his  humorous  hero 
so  that  I  might  take  up  the  thread  of  his  story. 

"From  the  window  beside  which  I  write  this  I 
can  see  down  in  the  valley  Ravensbrook  House, 


STEPHEN  CRANE:  AN  ESTIMATE  19 

where  Crane  used  to  live  and  where  Harold  Frederic, 
he  and  I  spent  many  a  merry  night  together.  When 
the  Romans  occupied  Britain,  some  of  their  legions, 
parched  with  thirst,  were  wandering  about  these  dry 
hills  with  the  chance  of  finding  water  or  perishing. 
They  watched  the  ravens,  and  so  came  to  the  stream 
which  rises  under  my  place  and  flows  past  Stephen's 
former  home;  hence  the  name,  Ravensbrook. 

"It  seems  a  strange  coincidence  that  the  greatest 
modern  writer  on  war  should  set  himself  down 
where  the  greatest  ancient  warrior,  Caesar,  probably 
stopped  to  quench  his  thirst. 

"Stephen  died  at  three  in  the  morning,  the  same 
sinister  hour  which  carried  away  our  friend  Frederic 
nineteen  months  before.  At  midnight,  in  Crane's 
fourteenth-century  house  in  Sussex,  we  two  tried 
to  lure  back  the  ghost  of  Frederic  into  that  house  of 
ghosts,  and  to  our  company,  thinking  that  if  re 
appearing  were  ever  possible  so  strenuous  a  man  as 
Harold  would  somehow  shoulder  his  way  past  the 
guards,  but  he  made  no  sign.  I  wonder  if  the  less 
insistent  Stephen  will  suggest  some  ingenious  method 
by  which  the  two  can  pass  the  barrier.  I  can  im 
agine  Harold  cursing  on  the  other  side,  and  wel 
coming  the  more  subtle  assistance  of  his  finely  fibred 
friend. 

"I  feel  like  the  last  of  the  Three  Musketeers,  the 
other  two  gone  down  in  their  duel  with  Death.  I 
am  wondering  if,  within  the  next  two  years,  I  also 
shall  get  the  challenge.  If  so,  I  shall  go  to  the  com- 


2o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

peting  ground  the  more  cheerfully  that  two  such 

good  fellows  await  the  outcome  on  the  other  side. 

"Ever  your  friend, 

"ROBERT  BARR." 

The  last  of  the  Three  Musketeers  is  gone,  now,  although  he 
outlived  his  friends  by  some  years.  Robert  Barr  died  in 
1912.  Perhaps  they  are  still  debating  a  joint  return. 

There  could  be,  perhaps,  no  better  close  for  a  paper  on 
Stephen  Crane  than  the  subjoined  paragraph  from  a  letter 
written  by  him  to  a  Rochester  editor:— 

"The  one  thing  that  deeply  pleases  me  is  the 
fact  that  men  of  sense  invariably  believe  me  to  be 
sincere.  I  know  that  my  work  does  not  amount  to 
a  string  of  dried  beans — I  always  calmly  admit  it — 
— but  I  also  know  that  I  do  the  best  that  is  in  me 
without  regard  to  praise  or  blame.  When  I  was 
the  mark  for  every  humorist  in  the  country,  I  went 
ahead;  and  now  when  I  am  the  mark  for  only  fifty 
per  cent  of  the  humorists  of  the  country,  I  go 
ahead ;  for  I  understand  that  a  man  is  born  into  the 
world  with  his  own  pair  of  eyes,  and  he  is  not  at  all 
responsible  for  his  vision — he  is  merely  respon 
sible  for  his  quality  of  personal  honesty.  To  keep 
close  to  this  personal  honesty  is  my  supreme  am 
bition." 

VINCENT  STARRETT. 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

A  TALE  INTENDED  TO  BE  AFTER  THE   FACT.      BEING  THE  EX 
PERIENCE   OF    FOUR   MEN    FROM    THE    SUNK    STEAMER 


NONE  of  them  knew  the  color  of  the  sky.  Their  eyes 
glanced  level,  and  were  fastened  upon  the  waves  that  swept 
toward  them.  These  waves  were  of  the  hue  of  slate,  save 
for  the  tops,  which  were  of  foaming  white,  and  all  of  the 
men  knew  the  colors  of  the  sea.  The  horizon  narrowed  and 
widened,  and  dipped  and  rose,  and  at  all  times  its  edge  was 
jagged  with  waves  that  seemed  thrust  up  in  points  like  rocks. 
Many  a  man  ought  to  have  a  bath-tub  larger  than  the  boat 
which  here  rode  upon  the  sea.  These  waves  were  most 
wrongfully  and  barbarously  abrupt  and  tall,  and  each  froth- 
top  was  a  problem  in  small-boat  navigation. 

The  cook  squatted  in  the  bottom  and  looked  with  both 
eyes  at  the  six  inches  of  gunwale  which  separated  him  from 
the  ocean.  His  sleeves  were  rolled  over  his  fat  forearms, 
and  the  two  flaps  of  his  unbuttoned  vest  dangled  as  he  bent 
to  bail  out  the  boat.  Often  he  said:  "Gawd!  That  was  a 
narrow  clip."  As  he  remarked  it  he  invariably  gazed  east 
ward  over  the  broken  sea. 

1  Copyright,  1898,  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 

23 


24  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

The  oiler,  steering  with  one  of  the  two  oars  in  the  boat, 
sometimes  raised  himself  suddenly  to  keep  clear  of  water 
that  swirled  in  over  the  stern.  It  was  a  thin  little  oar  and  it 
seemed  often  ready  to  snap. 

The  correspondent,  pulling  at  the  other  oar,  watched  the 
waves  and  wondered  why  he  was  there. 

The  injured  captain,  lying  in  the  bow,  was  at  this  time 
buried  in  that  profound  dejection  and  indifference  which 
comes,  temporarily  at  least,  to  even  the  bravest  and  most 
enduring  when,  willy  nilly,  the  firm  fails,  the  army  loses,  the 
ship  goes  down.  The  mind  of  the  master  of  a  vessel  is 
rooted  deep  in  the  timbers  of  her,  though  he  commanded  for 
a  day  or  a  decade,  and  this  captain  had  on  him  the  stern 
impression  of  a  scene  in  the  greys  of  dawn  of  seven  turned 
faces,  and  later  a  stump  of  a  top-mast  with  a  white  ball  on 
it  that  slashed  to  and  fro  at  the  waves,  went  low  and  lower, 
and  down.  Thereafter  there  was  something  strange  in  his 
voice.  Although  steady,  it  was  deep  with  mourning,  and  of 
a  quality  beyond  oration  or  tears. 

"Keep  'er  a  little  more  south,  Billie,"  said  he. 

"  'A  little  more  south,'  sir,"  said  the  oiler  in  the  stern. 

A  seat  in  this  boat  was  not  unlike  a  seat  upon  a  bucking 
broncho,  and  by  the  same  token,  a  broncho  is  not  much 
smaller.  The  craft  pranced  and  reared,  and  plunged  like 
an  animal.  As  each  wave  came,  and  she  rose  for  it,  she 
seemed  like  a  horse  making  at  a  fence  outrageously  high. 
The  manner  of  her  scramble  over  these  walls  of  water  is  a 
mystic  thing,  and,  moreover,  at  the  top  of  them  were  or 
dinarily  these  problems  in  white  water,  the  foam  racing  down 
from  the  summit  of  each  wave,  requiring  a  new  leap,  and  a 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  25 

leap  from  the  air.  Then,  after  scornfully  bumping  a  crest, 
she  would  slide,  and  race,  and  splash  down  a  long  incline, 
and  arrive  bobbing  and  nodding  in  front  of  the  next  menace. 

A  singular  disadvantage  of  the  sea  lies  in  the  fact  that  after 
successfully  surmounting  one  wave  you  discover  that  there  is 
another  behind  it  just  as  important  and  just  as  nervously 
anxious  to  do  something  effective  in  the  way  of  swamping 
boats.  In  a  ten-foot  dingey  one  can  get  an  idea  of  the 
resources  of  the  sea  in  the  line  of  waves  that  is  not  probable 
to  the  average  experience  which  is  never  at  sea  in  a  dingey. 
As  each  slatey  wall  of  water  approached,  it  shut  all  else  from 
the  view  of  the  men  in  the  boat,  and  it  was  not  difficult  to 
imagine  that  this  particular  wave  was  the  final  outburst  of 
the  ocean,  the  last  effort  of  the  grim  water.  There  was  a 
terrible  grace  in  the  move  of  the  waves,  and  they  came  in 
silence,  save  for  the  snarling  of  the  crests. 

In  the  wan  light,  the  faces  of  the  men  must  have  been 
grey.  Their  eyes  must  have  glinted  in  strange  ways  as  they 
gazed  steadily  astern.  Viewed  from  a  balcony,  the  whole 
thing  would  doubtless  have  been  weirdly  picturesque.  But 
the  men  in  the  boat  had  no  time  to  see  it,  and  if  they  had 
had  leisure  there  were  other  things  to  occupy  their  minds. 
The  sun  swung  steadily  up  the  sky,  and  they  knew  it  was 
broad  day  because  the  color  of  the  sea  changed  from  slate 
to  emerald-green,  streaked  with  amber  lights,  and  the  foam 
was  like  tumbling  snow.  The  process  of  the  breaking  day 
was  unknown  to  them.  They  were  aware  only  of  this  effect 
upon  the  color  of  the  waves  that  rolled  toward  them. 

In  disjointed  sentences  the  cook  and  the  correspondent 
argued  as  to  the  difference  between  a  life-saving  station  and 


26  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

a  house  of  refuge.  The  cook  had  said:  "There's  a  house  of 
refuge  just  north  of  the  Mosquito  Inlet  Light,  and  as  soon 
as  they  see  us,  they'll  come  off  in  their  boat  and  pick  us  up." 

"As  soon  as  who  see  us?"  said  the  correspondent. 

"The  crew,"  said  the  cook. 

"Houses  of  refuge  don't  have  crews,"  said  the  correspon 
dent  "As  I  understand  them,  they  are  only  places  where 
clothes  and  grub  are  stored  for  the  benefit  of  shipwrecked 
people.  They  don't  carry  crews." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  do,"  said  the  cook. 

"No,  they  don't,"  said  the  correspondent. 

"Well,  we're  not  there  yet,  anyhow,"  said  the  oiler,  in  the 
atern. 

"Well,"  said  the  cook,  "perhaps  it's  not  a  house  of  refuge 
that  I'm  thinking  of  as  being  near  Mosquito  Inlet  Light. 
Perhaps  it's  a  life-saving  station." 

"We're  not  there  yet,"  said  the  oiler,  in  the  stern. 

II 

As  the  boat  bounced  from  the  top  of  each  wave,  the  wind 
tore  through  the  hair  of  the  hatless  men,  and  as  the  craft 
plopped  her  stern  down  again  the  spray  splashed  past  them. 
The  crest  of  each  of  these  waves  was  a  hill,  from  the  top 
of  which  the  men  surveyed,  for  a  moment,  a  broad  tumultuous 
expanse,  shining  and  wind-riven.  It  was  probably  splendid. 
It  was  probably  glorious,  this  play  of  the  free  sea,  wild  with 
lights  of  emerald  and  white  and  amber. 

"Bully  good  thing  it's  an  on-shore  wind,"  said  the  coo& 
"If  not,  where  would  we  be?  Wouldn't  have  a  show." 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  27 

"That's  right,"  said  the  correspondent. 

The  busy  oiler  nodded  his  assent. 

Then  the  captain,  in  the  bow,  chuckled  in  a  way  that  ex 
pressed  humor,  contempt,  tragedy,  all  in  one.  "Do  you  think 
weVe  got  much  of  a  show  now,  boys?"  said  he. 

Whereupon  the  three  were  silent,  save  for  a  trifle  of  hem 
ming  and  hawing.  To  express  any  particular  optimism  at 
this  time  they  felt  to  be  childish  and  stupid,  but  they  al] 
doubtless  possessed  this  sense  of  the  situation  in  their  mind. 
A  young  man  thinks  doggedly  at  such  times.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  ethics  of  their  condition  was  decidedly  against  any 
open  suggestion  of  hopelessness.  So  they  were  silent. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  captain,  soothing  his  children,  "We'll 
get  ashore  all  right." 

But  there  was  that  in  his  tone  which  made  them  think,  so 
the  oiler  quoth:  "Yes!  If  this  wind  holds!" 

The  cook  was  bailing:  "Yes!  If  we  don't  catch  hell  in 
the  surf." 

Canton  flannel  gulls  flew  near  and  far.  Sometimes  they 
sat  down  on  the  sea,  near  patches  of  brown  seaweed  that 
rolled  on  the  waves  with  a  movement  like  carpets  on  a  line 
in  a  gale.  The  birds  sat  comfortably  in  groups,  and  they 
were  envied  by  some  in  the  dingey,  for  the  wrath  of  the  sea 
was  no  more  to  them  than  it  was  to  a  covey  of  prairie 
chickens  a  thousand  miles  inland.  Often  they  came  very  close 
and  stared  at  the  men  with  black  bead-like  eyes.  At  these 
times  they  were  uncanny  and  sinister  in  their  unblinking 
scrutiny,  and  the  men  hooted  angrily  at  them,  telling  them  to 
be  gone.  One  came,  and  evidently  decided  to  alight  on  the 
top  of  the  captain's  head.  The  bird  flew  parallel  to  the 


•28  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

boat  and  did  not  circle,  but  made  short  sidelong  jumps  in  the 
air  in  chicken-fashion.  His  black  eyes  were  wistfully  fixed 
upon  the  captain's  head.  "Ugly  brute,"  said  the  oiler  to 
the  bird.  "You  look  as  if  you  were  made  with  a  jack-knife." 
The  cook  and  the  correspondent  swore  darkly  at  the  crea 
ture.  The  captain  naturally  wished  to  knock  it  away  with 
(he  end  of  the  heavy  painter;  but  he  did  not  dare  do  it, 
because  anything  resembling  an  emphatic  gesture  would  have 
capsized  this  freighted  boat,  and  so  with  his  open  hand,  the 
captain  gently  and  carefully  waved  the  gull  away.  After  it 
had  been  discouraged  from  the  pursuit  the  captain  breathed 
easier  on  account  of  his  hair,  and  others  breathed  easier  be 
cause  the  bird  struck  their  minds  at  this  time  as  being  some 
how  grewsome  and  ominous. 

In  the  meantime  the  oiler  and  the  correspondent  rowed. 
.\nd  also  they  rowed. 

They  sat  together  in  the  same  seat,  and  each  rowed  an 
oar.  Then  the  oiler  took  both  oars;  then  the  correspondent 
took  both  oars;  then  the  oiler;  then  the  correspondent.  They 
rowed  and  they  rowed.  The  very  ticklish  part  of  the  busi 
ness  was  when  the  time  came  for  the  reclining  one  in  the 
stern  to  take  his  turn  at  the  oars.  By  the  very  last  star  of 
truth,  it  is  easier  to  steal  eggs  from  under  a  hen  than  it  was 
to  change  seats  in  the  dingey.  First  the  man  in  the  stern 
slid  his  hand  along  the  thwart  and  moved  with  care,  as  if 
he  were  of  Sevres.  Then  the  man  in  the  rowing  seat  slid 
his  hand  along  the  other  thwart.  It  was  all  done  with  the 
most  extraordinary  care.  As  the  two  sidled  past  each  other, 
the  whole  party  kept  watchful  eyes  on  the  coming  wave,  and 
the  captain  cried:  "Look  out  now!  Steady  there!" 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  29 

The  brown  mats  of  seaweed  that  appeared  from  time  to 
time  were  like  islands,  bits  of  earth.  They  were  traveling, 
apparently,  neither  one  way  nor  the  other.  They  were,  to 
all  intents,  stationary.  They  informed  the  men  in  the  boat 
that  it  was  making  progress  slowly  toward  the  land. 

The  captain,  rearing  cautiously  in  the  bow,  after  the  din 
gey  soared  on  a  great  swell,  said  that  he  had  seen  the  light 
house  at  Mosquito  Inlet.  Presently  the  cook  remarked  that  he 
had  seen  it.  The  correspondent  was  at  the  oars  then,  and 
for  some  reason  he  too  wished  to  look  at  the  lighthouse,  but 
his  back  was  toward  the  far  shore  and  the  waves  were  im 
portant,  and  for  some  time  he  could  not  seize  an  opportunity 
to  turn  his  head.  But  at  last  there  came  a  wave  more  gentle 
than  the  others,  and  when  at  the  crest  of  it  he  swiftly  scoured 
the  western  horizon. 

"See  it?"  said  the  captain. 

"No,"  said  the  correspondent  slowly,  "I  didn't  see  any 
thing." 

"Look  again,"  said  the  captain.  He  pointed.  "It's  exactly 
in  that  direction." 

At  the  top  of  another  wave,  the  correspondent  did  as  he 
was  bid,  and  this  time  his  eyes  chanced  on  a  small  still  thing 
on  the  edge  of  the  swaying  horizon.     It  was  precisely  like 
the  point  of  a  pin.     It  took  an  anxious  eye  to  find  a  light 
house  so  tiny. 

"Think  we'll  make  it,  captain?" 

"If  this  wind  holds  and  the  boat  don't  swamp,  we  can't 
do  much  else,"  said  the  captain. 

The  little  boat,  lifted  by  each  towering  sea,  and  splashed 
viciously  by  the  crests,  made  progress  that  in  the  absence  of 


30  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

seaweed  was  not  apparent  to  those  in  her.  She  seemed  just  a 
we*  thing  wallowing,  miraculously  top-up,  at  the  mercy  of 
five  oceans.  Occasionally,  a  great  spread  of  water,  like  white 
flames,  swarmed  into  her. 

"Bail  her,  cook,"  said  the  captain  serenely. 

"All  right,  captain,"  said  the  cheerful  cook. 

Ill 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  subtle  brotherhood  of 
men  that  was  here  established  on  the  seas.  No  one  said  that 
it  was  so.  No  one  mentioned  it.  But  it  dwelt  in  the  boat, 
and  each  man  felt  it  warm  him.  They  were  a  captain,  an 
oiler,  a  cook,  and  a  correspondent,  and  they  were  friends, 
friends  in  a  more  curiously  iron-bound  degree  than  may  be 
common.  The  hurt  captain,  lying  against  the  water-jar  in 
the  bow,  spoke  always  in  a  low  voice  and  calmly,  but  he 
could  never  command  a  more  ready  and  swiftly  obedient  crew 
than  the  motley  three  of  the  dingey.  It  was  more  than  a 
mere  recognition  of  what  was  best  for  the  common  safety. 
There  was  surely  in  it  a  quality  that  was  personal  and  heart 
felt.  And  after  this  devotion  to  the  commander  of  the  boat 
there  was  this  comradeship  that  the  correspondent,  for  in 
stance,  who  had  been  taught  to  be  cynical  of  men,  knew  even 
at  the  time  was  the  best  experience  of  his  life.  But  no  one 
said  that  it  was  so.  No  one  mentioned  it. 

"I  wish  we  had  a  sail,"  remarked  the  captain.  "We  might 
try  my  overcoat  on  the  end  of  an  oar  and  give  you  two  boy? 
a  chance  to  rest."  So  the  cook  and  the  correspondent  held 
the  mast  and  spread  wide  the  overcoat.  The  oiler  steered, 
the  little  boat  made  good  way  with  her  new  rig.  Some- 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  31 

times  the  oiler  had  to  scull  sharply  to  keep  a  sea  from  break 
ing  into  the  boat,  but  otherwise  sailing  was  a  success. 

Meanwhile  the  lighthouse  had  been  growing  slowly  larger. 
It  had  now  almost  assumed  color,  and  appeared  like  a  little 
grey  shadow  on  the  sky.  The  man  at  the  oars  could  not 
be  prevented  from  turning  his  head  rather  often  to  try  for 
a  glimpse  of  this  little  grey  shadow. 

At  last,  from  the  top  of  each  wave  the  men  in  the  tossing 
boat  could  see  land.  Even  as  the  lighthouse  was  an  upright 
shadow  on  the  sky,  this  land  seemed  but  a  long  black  shadow 
on  the  sea.  It  certainly  was  thinner  than  paper.  "We  must 
be  about  opposite  New  Smyrna,"  said  the  cook,  who  had 
coasted  this  shore  often  in  schooners.  "Captain,  by  the  way, 
I  believe  they  abandoned  that  life-saving  station  there  about 
a  year  ago." 

"Did  they?"  said  the  captain. 

The  wind  slowly  died  away.  The  cook  and  the  corre 
spondent  were  not  now  obliged  to  slave  in  order  to  hold  high 
the  oar.  But  the  waves  continued  their  old  impetuous 
swooping  at  the  dingey,  and  the  little  craft,  no  longer  under 
way,  struggled  woundily  over  them.  The  oiler  or  the  corre 
spondent  took  the  oars  again. 

Shipwrecks  are  a  propos  of  nothing.  If  men  could  only 
train  for  them  and  have  them  occur  when  the  men  had  reached 
pink  condition,  there  would  be  less  drowning  at  sea.  Of  the 
four  in  the  dingey  none  had  slept  any  time  worth  mention 
ing  for  two  days  and  two  nights  previous  to  embarking  in 
the  dingey,  and  in  the  excitement  of  clambering  about  the 
deck  of  a  foundering  ship  they  had  also  forgotten  to  eat 
heartily. 


32  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

For  these  reasons,  and  for  others,  neither  the  oiler  nor  the 
correspondent  was  fond  of  rowing  at  this  time.  The  corre 
spondent  wondered  ingenuously  how  in  the  name  of  all  that 
was  sane  could  there  be  people  who  thought  it  amusing  to 
row  a  boat.  It  was  not  an  amusement;  it  was  a  diabolical 
punishment,  and  even  a  genius  of  mental  aberrations  could 
never  conclude  that  it  was  anything  but  a  horror  to  the  mus 
cles  and  a  crime  against  the  back.  He  mentioned  to  the 
boat  in  general  how  the  amusement  of  rowing  struck  him, 
and  the  weary-faced  oiler  smiled  in  full  sympathy.  Previously 
to  the  foundering,  by  the  way,  the  oiler  had  worked  double- 
watch  in  the  engine-room  of  the  ship. 

"Take  her  easy,  now,  boys,"  said  the  captain.  "Don't 
spend  yourselves.  If  we  have  to  run  a  surf  you'll  need  all 
your  strength,  because  we'll  sure  have  to  swim  for  it.  Take 
your  time." 

Slowly  the  land  arose  from  the  sea.  From  a  black  line 
it  became  a  line  of  black  and  a  line  of  white,  trees  and  sand. 
Finally,  the  captain  said  that  he  could  make  out  a  house  on 
the  shore.  "That's  the  house  of  refuge,  sure,"  said  the  cook. 
"They'll  see  us  before  long,  and  come  out  after  us." 

The  distart  lighthouse  reared  high.  "The  keeper  ought  to 
be  able  to  make  us  out  now,  if  he's  looking  through  a  glass," 
said  the  captain.  "He'll  notify  the  life-saving  people." 

"None  of  those  other  boats  could  have  got  ashore  to  give 
word  of  the  wreck,"  said  the  oiler,  in  a  low  voice.  "Else  the 
lifeboat  would  be  out  hunting  us." 

Slowly  and  beautifully  the  land  loomed  out  of  the  sea. 
The  wind  came  again.  It  had  veered  from  the  north-east  to 
the  south-east.  Finally,  a  new  sound  struck  the  ears  of  the 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  33 

men  in  the  boat.  It  was  the  low  thunder  of  the  surf  on  the 
shore.  "We'U  never  be  able  to  make  the  lighthouse  now," 
said  the  captain.  "Swing  her  head  a  little  more  north, 
Bfflie,"  said  he. 

"  'A  little  more  north,'  sir,"  said  the  oiler. 

Whereupon  the  little  boat  turned  her  nose  once  more  down 
the  wind,  and  all  but  the  oarsman  watched  the  shore  grow. 
Under  the  influence  of  this  expansion  doubt  and  direful  ap 
prehension  was  leaving  the  minds  of  the  men.  The  manage 
ment  of  the  boat  was  still  most  absorbing,  but  it  could  not 
prevent  a  quiet  cheerfulness.  In  an  hour,  perhaps,  they 
would  be  ashore. 

Their  backbones  had  become  thoroughly  used  to  balanc 
ing  in  the  boat,  and  they  now  rode  this  wild  colt  of  a  dingey 
like  circus  men.  The  correspondent  thought  that  he  had 
been  drenched  to  the  skin,  but  happening  to  feel  in  the  top 
pocket  of  his  coat,  he  found  therein  eight  cigars.  Four  of 
them  were  soaked  with  sea-water;  four  were  perfectly  scath- 
less.  After  a  search,  somebody  produced  three  dry  matches, 
and  thereupon  the  four  waifs  rode  impudently  in  their  little 
boat,  and  with  an  assurance  of  an  impending  rescue  shining 
in  their  eyes,  puffed  at  the  big  cigars  and  judged  well  and  ill 
of  all  men.  Everybody  took  a  drink  of  water. 

IV 

"CooK,"  remarked  the  captain,  "there  don't  seem  to  be 
any  signs  of  life  about  your  house  of  refuge." 

"No,"  replied  the  cook.     "Funny  they  don't  see  us!" 
A  broad  stretch  of  lowly  coast  lay  before  the  eyes  of  the 
men.     It  was  of  dunes  topped  with  dark  vegetation.     The 
roar  of  the  surf  was  plain,  and  sometimes  they  could  see  the 


34  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

white  lip  of  a  wave  as  it  spun  up  the  beach.  A  tiny  house 
tvas  blocked  out  black  upon  the  sky.  Southward,  the  slim 
lighthouse  lifted  its  little  grey  length. 

Tide,  wind,  and  waves  were  swinging  the  dingey  north 
ward.  "Funny  they  don't  see  us,"  said  the  men. 

The  surf's  roar  was  here  dulled,  but  its  tone  was,  never 
theless,  thunderous  and  mighty.  As  the  boat  swam  over  the 
great  rollers,  the  men  sat  listening  to  this  roar.  "We'll  swamp 
sure,"  said  everybody. 

It  is  fair  to  say  here  that  there  was  not  a  life-saving 
station  within  twenty  miles  in  either  direction,  but  the  men 
did  not  know  this  fact,  and  in  consequence  they  made  dark 
and  opprobrious  remarks  concerning  the  eyesight  of  the  na 
tion's  life-savers.  Four  scowling  men  sat  in  the  dingey  and 
surpassed  records  in  the  invention  of  epithets. 

"Funny  they  don't  see  us." 

The  lightheartedness  of  a  former  time  had  completely 
faded.  To  their  sharpened  minds  it  was  easy  to  conjure 
pictures  of  all  kinds  of  incompetency  and  blindness  and,  in 
deed,  cowardice.  There  was  the  shore  of  the  populous  land, 
and  it  was  bitter  and  bitter  to  them  that  from  it  came  no 
sign. 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  ultimately,  "I  suppose  we'll  have 
to  make  a  try  for  ourselves.  If  we  stay  out  here  too  long, 
we'll  none  of  us  have  strength  left  to  swim  after  the  boat 
swamps." 

And  so  the  oiler,  who  was  at  the  oars,  turned  the  boat 
straight  for  the  shore.  There  was  a  sudden  tightening  of 
muscle.  There  was  some  thinking. 

"If  we  don't  all  get  ashore "  said  the  captain.    "If  we 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  35 

don't  all  get  ashore,  I  suppose  you  fellows  know  where  to 
send  news  of  my  finish?" 

They  then  briefly  exchanged  some  addresses  and  admoni 
tions.  As  for  the  reflections  of  the  men,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  rage  in  them.  Perchance  they  might  be  formulated 
thus:  "If  I  am  going  to  be  drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be 
drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be  drowned,  why,  in  the  name  of 
the  seven  mad  gods  who  rule  the  sea,  was  I  allowed  to  come 
thus  far  and  contemplate  sand  and  trees?  Was  I  brought 
here  merely  to  have  my  nose  dragged  away  as  I  was  about 
to  nibble  the  sacred  cheese  of  life?  It  is  preposterous.  If 
this  old  ninny-woman,  Fate,  cannot  do  better  than  this,  she 
should  be  deprived  of  the  management  of  men's  fortunes. 
She  is  an  old  hen  who  knows  not  her  intention.  If  she  has 
decided  to  drown  me,  why  did  she  not  do  it  in  the  beginning 
and  save  me  all  this  trouble?  The  whole  affair  is  absurd.  .  . 
But  no,  she  cannot  mean  to  drown  me.  She  dare  not  drown 
me.  She  cannot  drown  me.  Not  after  all  this  work."  After 
ward  the  man  might  have  had  an  impulse  to  shake  his  fist 
at  the  clouds:  "Just  you  drown  me,  now,  and  then  hear  what 
I  call  you!" 

The  billows  that  came  at  this  time  were  more  formidable. 
They  seemed  always  just  about  to  break  and  roll  over  the 
little  boat  in  a  turmoil  of  foam.  There  was  a  preparatory 
and  long  growl  in  the  speech  of  them.  No  mind  unused  to 
the  sea  would  have  concluded  that  the  dingey  could  ascend 
these  sheer  heights  in  time.  The  shore  was  still  afar.  The 
oiler  was  a  wily  surfman.  "Boys,"  he  said  swiftly,  "she 
won't  live  three  minutes  more,  and  we're  too  far  out  to  swim. 
Shall  I  take  her  to  sea  again,  captain?" 


3 6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Yes!     Go  ahead! "  said  the  captain. 

This  oiler,  by  a  series  of  quick  miracles,  and  fast  and 
steady  oarsmanship,  turned  the  boat  in  the  middle  of  the 
surf  and  took  her  safely  to  sea  again. 

There  was  a  considerable  silence  as  the  boat  bumped  over 
the  furrowed  sea  to  deeper  water.  Then  somebody  in  gloom 
spoke.  "Well,  anyhow,  they  must  have  seen  us  from  the 
shore  by  now." 

The  gulls  went  in  slanting  flight  up  the  wind  toward  the 
grey  desolate  east.  A  squall,  marked  by  dingy  clouds,  and 
clouds  brick-red,  like  smoke  from  a  burning  building,  ap 
peared  from  the  south-east. 

"What  do  you  think  of  those  life-saving  people?  Ain't 
they  peaches?' 

"Funny  they  haven't  seen  us." 

"Maybe  they  think  we're  out  here  for  sport!  Maybe  they 
think  we're  fishin'.  Maybe  they  think  we're  damned  fools." 

It  was  a  long  afternoon.  A  changed  tide  tried  to  force 
them  southward,  but  the  wind  and  wave  said  northward. 
Far  ahead,  where  coast-line,  sea,  and  sky  formed  their  mighty 
angle,  there  were  little  dots  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  city 
on  the  shore. 

"St.  Augustine?" 

The  captain  shook  his  head.  "Too  near  Mosquito 
Inlet." 

And  the  oiler  rowed,  and  then  the  correspondent  rowed. 
Then  the  oiler  rowed.  It  was  a  weary  business.  The  human 
back  can  become  the  seat  of  more  aches  and  pains  than  are 
registered  hi  books  for  the  composite  anatomy  of  a  regi 
ment.  It  is  a  limited  area,  but  it  can  become  the  theatre 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  37 

of  innumerable  muscular  conflicts,  tangles,  wrenches,  knots, 
and  other  comforts. 

"Did  you  ever  like  to  row,  Billie?"  asked  the  cor 
respondent. 

"No,"  said  the  oiler.     "Hang  it! " 

When  one  exchanged  the  rowing-seat  for  a  place  in  the/ 
bottom  of  the  boat,  he  suffered  a  bodily  depression  that 
caused  him  to  be  careless  of  everything  save  an  obligation 
to  wiggle  one  ringer.  There  was  cold  sea-water  swashing 
to  and  fro  in  the  boat,  and  he  lay  in  it.  His  head,  pil 
lowed  on  a  thwart,  was  within  an  inch  of  the  swirl  of  a  wave 
crest,  and  sometimes  a  particularly  obstreperous  sea  carm 
in-board  and  drenched  him  once  more.  But  these  matter? 
did  not  annoy  him.  It  is  almost  certain  that  if  the  boat 
had  capsized  he  would  have  tumbled  comfortably  out  upoi/ 
the  ocean  as  if  he  felt  sure  that  it  was  a  great  soft  mattress, 

"Look!     There's  a  man  on  the  shore!" 

"Where?" 

"There!     See  'im?     See  'im?" 

"Yes,  sure!     He's  walking  along." 

"Now  he's  stopped.     Look!     He's  facing  us!" 

"He's  waving  at  us!" 

"So  he  is!     By  thunder!" 

"Ah,  now  we're  all  right!  Now  we're  all  right!  There!! 
be  a  boat  out  here  for  us  in  half-an-hour." 

"He's  going  on.  He's  running.  He's  going  up  to  that 
house  there." 

The  remote  beach  seemed  lower  than  the  sea,  and  it  re 
quired  a  searching  glance  to  discern  the  little  black  figure. 
The  captain  saw  a  floating  stick  and  they  rowed  to  it.  A 


38  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

bath-towel  was  by  some  weird  chance  in  the  boat,  and,  tying 
this  on  the  stick,  'the  captain  waved  it.  The  oarsman  did 
not  dare  turn  his  head,  so  he  was  obliged  to  ask  questions. 

"What's  he  doing  now?" 

"He's  standing  still  again.  He's  looking,  I  think 

There  he  goes  again.  Toward  the  house.  .  .  .  Now  he's 
stopped  again." 

"Is  he  waving  at  us?" 

"No,  not  now!  he  was,  though." 

"Look!     There  comes  another  man!" 

"He's  running." 

"Look  at  him  go,  would  you." 

"Why,  he's  on  a  bicycle.  Now  he's  met  the  other  man. 
They're  both  waving  at  us.  Look!" 

"There  comes  something  up  the  beach." 

"What  the  devil  is  that  thing?" 

"Why  it  looks  like  a  boat." 

"Why,  certainly  it's  a  boat." 

"No,  it's  on  wheels." 

"Yes,  so  it  is.  Well,  that  must  be  the  life-boat.  They 
drag  them  along  shore  on  a  wagon." 

"That's  the  life-boat,  sure." 

"No,  by  -       — ,  it's— it's  an  omnibus." 

"I  tell  you  it's  a  life-boat." 

"It  is  not!  It's  an  omnibus.  I  can  see  it  plain.  See? 
One  of  these  big  hotel  omnibuses." 

"By  thunder,  you're  right.  It's  an  omnibus,  sure  as  fate. 
What  do  you  suppose  they  are  doing  with  an  omnibus? 
Maybe  they  are  going  around  collecting  the  life-crew,  hey?" 

"That's  it,  likely.     Look!     There's  a  fellow  waving  a 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  39 

little  black  flag.  He's  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  omnibus. 
There  come  those  other  two  fellows.  Now  they're  all  talk 
ing  together.  Look  at  the  fellow  with  the  flag.  Maybe  he 
ain't  waving  it." 

"That  ain't  a  flag,  is  it?  That's  his  coat.  Why,  cer 
tainly,  that's  his  coat." 

"So  it  is.  It's  his  coat.  He's  taken  it  off  and  is  waving 
it  around  his  head.  But  would  you  look  at  him  swing  it." 

"Oh,  say,  there  isn't  any  life-saving  station  there.  That's 
just  a  winter  resort  hotel  omnibus  that  has  brought  over 
some  of  the  boarders  to  see  us  drown." 

"What's  that  idiot  with  the  coat  mean?  What's  he  sig 
naling,  anyhow?" 

"It  looks  as  if  he  were  trying  to  tell  us  to  go  north.  There 
must  be  a  life-saving  station  up  there." 

"No!  He  thinks  we're  fishing.  Just  giving  us  a  merry 
hand.  See?  Ah,  there,  Willie!" 

"Well,  I  wish  I  could  make  something  out  of  those  sig 
nals.  What  do  you  suppose  he  means?" 

"He  don't  mean  anything.     He's  just  playing." 

"Well,  if  he'd  just  signal  us  to  try  the  surf  again,  or  to  go 
to  sea  and  wait,  or  go  north,  or  go  south,  or  go  to  hell — • 
there  would  be  some  reason  in  it.  But  look  at  him.  He 
just  stands  there  and  keeps  his  coat  revolving  like  a  wheel. 
The  ass!" 

"There  come  more  people." 

"Now  there's  quite  a  mob.     Look!     Isn't  that  a  boat?" 

"Where?  Oh,  I  see  where  you  mean.  No,  that's  no 
boat." 

"That  fellow  is  still  waving  his  coat." 


40  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"He  must  think  we  like  to  see  him  do  that.  Why  don't 
he  quit  it?  It  don't  mean  anything." 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  he  is  trying  to  make  us  go  north. 
It  must  be  that  there's  a  life-saving  station  there  somewhere." 

"Say,  he  ain't  tired  yet.     Look  at  'im  wave." 

"Wonder  how  long  he  can  keep  that  up.  He's  been 
revolving  his  coat  ever  since  he  caught  sight  of  us.  He's  an 
idiot.  Why  aren't  they  getting  men  to  bring  a  boat  out? 
A  fishing  boat — one  of  those  big  yawls — could  come  out 
here  all  right.  Why  don't  he  do  something?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  now." 

"They'll  have  a  boat  out  here  for  us  in  less  than  no  time, 
now  that  they've  seen  us." 

A  faint  yellow  tone  came  into  the  sky  over  the  low  land. 
The  shadows  on  the  sea  slowly  deepened.  The  wind  bore 
coldness  with  it,  and  the  men  began  to  shiver. 

"Holy  smoke!"  said  one,  allowing  his  voice  to  express  his 
Impious  mood,  "if  we  keep  on  monkeying  out  here!  If  we've 
got  to  flounder  out  here  all  night! " 

"Oh,  we'll  never  have  to  stay  here  all  night!  Don't  you 
worry.  They've  seen  us  now,  and  it  won't  be  long  before 
they'll  come  chasing  out  after  us." 

The  shore  grew  dusky.  The  man  waving  a  coat  blended 
gradually  into  this  gloom,  and  it  swallowed  in  the  same 
manner  the  omnibus  and  the  group  of  people.  The  spray, 
when  it  dashed  uproariously  over  the  side,  made  the  voy 
agers  shrink  and  swear  like  men  who  were  being  branded. 

"I'd  like  to  catch  the  chump  who  waved  the  coat.  I  feel 
like  soaking  him  one,  just  for  luck." 

"Why?    What  did  he  do?" 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  41 

"Oh,  nothing,  but  then  he  seemed  so  damned  cheerful." 

In  the  meantime  the  oiler  rowed,  and  then  the  correspond 
ent  rowed,  and  then  the  oiler  rowed.  Grey-faced  and  bowed 
forward,  they  mechanically,  turn  by  turn,  plied  the  leaden 
oars.  The  form  of  the  lighthouse  had  vanished  from  the 
southern  horizon,  but  finally  a  pale  star  appeared,  just  lift 
ing  from  the  sea.  The  streaked  saffron  in  the  west  passed 
before  the  all-merging  darkness,  and  the  sea  to  the  east  was 
black.  The  land  had  vanished,  and  was  expressed  only  by 
the  low  and  drear  thunder  of  the  surf. 

"If  I  am  going  to  be  drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be 
drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be  drowned,  why,  in  the  name 
of  the  seven  mad  gods  who  rule  the  sea,  was  I  allowed  to 
come  thus  far  and  contemplate  sand  and  trees?  Was  I 
brought  here  merely  to  have  my  nose  dragged  away  as  I 
was  about  to  nibble  the  sacred  cheese  of  life?" 

The  patient  captain,  drooped  over  the  water-jar,  was 
sometimes  obliged  to  speak  to  the  oarsman. 

"Keep  her  head  up!     Keep  her  head  up!" 

"  'Keep  her  head  up/  sir."  The  voices  were  weary  and 
low. 

This  was  surely  a  quiet  evening.  All  save  the  oarsman 
lay  heavily  and  listlessly  in  the  boat's  bottom.  As  for  him, 
his  eyes  were  just  capable  of  noting  the  tall  black  waves 
that  swept  forward  in  a  most  sinister  silence,  save  for  an 
occasional  subdued  growl  of  a  crest. 

The  cook's  head  was  on  a  thwart,  and  he  looked  without 
interest  at  the  water  under  his  nose.  He  was  deep  in  other 
scenes.  Finally  he  spoke.  "Billie,"  he  murmured,  dream 
fully,  "what  kind  of  pie  do  you  like  best?" 


42  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

V 

"PiE,"  said  the  oiler  and  the  correspondent,  agitatedly. 
"Don't  talk  about  those  things,  blast  you!" 

"Well,"  said  the  cook,  "I  was  just  thinking  about  ham 
sandwiches,  and " 

A  night  on  the  sea  in  an  open  boat  is  a  long  night.  As 
darkness  settled  finally,  the  shine  of  the  light,  lifting  from 
the  sea  in  the  south,  changed  to  full  gold.  On  the  northern 
horizon  a  new  light  appeared,  a  small  bluish  gleam  on  the 
edge  of  the  waters.  These  two  lights  were  the  furniture  of 
the  world.  Otherwise  there  was  nothing  but  waves. 

Two  men  huddled  in  the  stern,  and  distances  were  so  mag 
nificent  in  the  dingey  that  the  rower  was  enabled  to  keep 
his  feet  partly  warmed  by  thrusting  them  under  his  com 
panions.  Their  legs  indeed  extended  far  under  the  rowing- 
seat  until  they  touched  the  feet  of  the  captain  forward. 
Sometimes,  despite  the  efforts  of  the  tired  oarsman,  a  wave 
came  piling  into  the  boat,  an  icy  wave  of  the  night,  and  the 
chilling  water  soaked  them  anew.  They  would  twist  their 
bodies  for  a  moment  and  groan,  and  sleep  the  dead  sleep 
once  more,  while  the  water  in  the  boat  gurgled  about  them 
as  the  craft  rocked. 

The  plan  of  the  oiler  and  the  correspondent  was  for  one 
to  row  until  he  lost  the  ability,  and  then  arouse 
the  other  from  his  sea-water  couch  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat. 

The  oiler  plied  the  oars  until  his  head  drooped  forward, 
and  the  overpowering  sleep  blinded  him.  And  he  rowed  yet 
afterward.  Then  he  touched  a  man  in  the  bottom  of  the 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  43 

boat,  and  called  his  name.  "Will  you  spell  me  for  a  little 
while?"  he  said,  meekly. 

"Sure,  Billie,"  said  the  correspondent,  awakening  and 
dragging  himself  to  a  sitting  position.  They  exchanged 
places  carefully,  and  the  oiler,  cuddling  down  in  the  sea- 
water  at  the  cook's  side,  seemed  to  go  to  sleep  instantly. 

The  particular  violence  of  the  sea  had  ceased.  The  waves 
came  without  snarling.  The  obligation  of  the  man  at  the 
oars  was  to  keep  the  boat  headed  so  that  the  tilt  of  the 
rollers  would  not  capsize  her,  and  to  preserve  her  from  filling 
when  the  crests  rushed  past.  The  black  waves  were  silent 
and  hard  to  be  seen  in  the  darkness.  Often  one  was  almost 
upon  the  boat  before  the  oarsman  was  aware. 

In  a  low  voice  the  correspondent  addressed  the  captain. 
He  was  not  sure  that  the  captain  was  awake,  although  this 
iron  man  seemed  to  be  always  awake.  "Captain,  shall  I 
keep  her  making  for  that  light  north,  sir?" 

The  same  steady  voice  answered  him.  "Yes.  Keep  it 
about  two  points  off  the  port  bow." 

The  cook  had  tied  a  life-belt  around  himself  in  order  to 
get  even  the  warmth  which  this  clumsy  cork  contrivance 
could  donate,  and  he  seemed  almost  stove-like  when  a  rower, 
whose  teeth  invariably  chattered  wildly  as  soon  as  he  ceased 
his  labor,  dropped  down  to  sleep. 

The  correspondent,  as  he  rowed,  looked  down  at  the  two 
men  sleeping  under-foot.  The  cook's  arm  was  around  the 
oiler's  shoulders,  and,  with  their  fragmentary  clothing  and 
haggard  faces,  they  were  the  babes  of  the  sea,  a  grotesque 
rendering  of  the  old  babes  in  the  wood. 

Later  he  must  have  grown  stupid  at  his  work,  for  sud- 


44  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

denly  there  was  a  growling  of  water,  and  a  crest  came  with 
a  roar  and  a  swash  into  the  boat,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that 
it  did  not  set  the  cook  afloat  in  his  life-belt.  The  cook  con 
tinued  to  sleep,  but  the  oiler  sat  up,  blinking  his  eyes  and 
shaking  with  the  new  cold. 

"Oh,  I'm  awful  sorry,  Billie,"  said  the  correspondent  con 
tritely. 

"That's  all  right,  old  boy,"  said  the  oiler,  and  lay  down 
again  and  was  asleep. 

Presently  it  seemed  that  even  the  captain  dozed,  and  the 
correspondent  thought  that  he  was  the  one  man  afloat  on 
all  the  oceans.  The  wind  had  a  voice  as  it  came  over  the 
waves,  and  it  was  sadder  than  the  end. 

There  was  a  long,  loud  swishing  astern  of  the  boat,  and  a 
gleaming  trail  of  phosphorescence,  like  blue  flame,  was  fur 
rowed  on  the  black  waters.  It  might  have  been  made  by  a 
monstrous  knife. 

Then  there  came  a  stillness,  while  the  correspondent 
breathed  with  the  open  mouth  and  looked  at  the  sea. 

Suddenly  there  was  another  swish  and  another  long  flash 
of  bluish  light,  and  this  time  it  was  alongside  the  boat,  and 
might  almost  have  been  reached  with  an  oar.  The  corre 
spondent  saw  an  enormous  fin  speed  like  a  shadow  through 
the  water,  hurling  the  crystalline  spray  and  leaving  the  long 
glowing  trail. 

The  correspondent  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  cap 
tain.  His  face  was  hidden,  and  he  seemed  to  be  asleep.  He 
looked  at  the  babes  of  the  sea.  They  certainly  were  asleep. 
So,  being  bereft  of  sympathy,  he  leaned  a  little  way  to  one 
side  and  swore  softly  into  the  sea. 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  45 

But  the  thing  did  not  then  leave  the  vicinity  of  the  boat. 
Ahead  or  astern,  on  one  side  or  the  other,  at  intervals  long 
or  short,  fled  the  long  sparkling  streak,  and  there  was  to  be 
heard  the  whirroo  of  the  dark  fin.  The  speed  and  power  of 
the  thing  was  greatly  to  be  admired.  It  cut  the  water  like  a 
gigantic  and  keen  projectile. 

The  presence  of  this  biding  thing  did  not  affect  the  man 
with  the  same  horror  that  it  would  if  he  had  been  a  pic 
nicker.  He  simply  looked  at  the  sea  dully  and  swore  in  an 
undertone. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  true  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  alone. 
He  wished  one  of  his  companions  to  awaken  by  chance  and 
keep  him  company  with  it.  But  the  captain  hung  motion 
less  over  the  water-jar,  and  the  oiler  and  the  cook  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  were  plunged  in  slumber. 

VI 

alp  I  am  going  to  be  drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be 
drowned — if  I  am  going  to  be  drowned,  why,  in  the  name 
of  the  seven  mad  gods  who  rule  the  sea,  was  I  allowed  to 
come  thus  far  and  contemplate  sand  and  trees?" 

During  this  dismal  night,  it  may  be  remarked  that  a  man 
would  conclude  that  it  was  really  the  intention  of  the  seven 
mad  gods  to  drown  him,  despite  the  abominable  injustice  of 
it.  For  it  was  certainly  an  abominable  injustice  to  drown  a 
man  who  had  worked  so  hard,  so  hard.  The  man  felt  it 
would  be  a  crime  most  unnatural.  Other  people  had  drowned 
at  sea  since  galleys  swarmed  with  painted  sails,  but  still 

When  it  occurs  to  a  man  that  nature  does  not  regard  him 


46  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

as  important,  and  that  she  feels  she  would  not  maim  the 
universe  by  disposing  of  him,  he  at  first  wishes  to  throw 
bricks  at  the  temple,  and  he  hates  deeply  the  fact  that  there 
are  no  brick  and  no  temples.  Any  visible  expression  of 
nature  would  surely  be  pelleted  with  his  jeers. 

Then,  if  there  be  no  tangible  thing  to  hoot  he  feels,  per 
haps,  the  desire  to  confront  a  personification  and  indulge  in 
pleas,  bowed  to  one  knee,  and  with  hands  supplicant,  say 
ing:  "Yes,  but  I  love  myself." 

A  high  cold  star  on  a  winter's  night  is  the  word  he  feels 
that  she  says  to  him.  Thereafter  he  knows  the  pathos  of 
his  situation. 

The  men  in  the  dingey  had  not  discussed  these  matters, 
but  each  had,  no  doubt,  reflected  upon  them  in  silence  and 
according  to  his  mind.  There  was  seldom  any  expression 
upon  their  faces  save  the  general  one  of  complete  weariness. 
Speech  was  devoted  to  the  business  of  the  boat. 

To  chime  the  notes  of  his  emotion,  a  verse  mysteriously 
entered  the  correspondent's  head.  He  had  even  forgotten 
that  he  had  forgotten  this  verse,  but  it  suddenly  was  in  his 
mind. 

"A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 
There  was   a   lack  of   woman's   nursing,   there   was    dearth   of 

woman's  tears; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  and  he  took  that  comrade's 

hand, 
And  he  said :    'I  shall  never  see  my  own,  my  native  land.' " 

In  his  childhood,  the  correspondent  had  been  made  ac 
quainted  with  the  fact  that  a  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying 
in  Algiers,  but  he  had  never  regarded  the  fact  as  important. 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  47 

Myriads  of  his  school-fellows  had  informed  him  of  the  sol 
dier's  plight,  but  the  dinning  had  naturally  ended  by  making 
him  perfectly  indifferent.  He  had  never  considered  it  his 
affair  that  a  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers,  noi 
had  it  appeared  to  him  as  a  matter  for  sorrow.  It  was  less 
to  him  than  the  breaking  of  a  pencil's  point. 

Now,  however,  it  quaintly  came  to  him  as  a  human,  living 
thing.  It  was  no  longer  merely  a  picture  of  a  few  throes  in 
the  breast  of  a  poet,  meanwhile  drinking  tea  and  warming 
his  feet  at  the  grate;  it  was  an  actuality — stern,  mournful, 
and  fine. 

The  correspondent  plainly  saw  the  soldier.  He  lay  on  the 
sand  with  his  feet  out  straight  and  still.  While  his  pale  left 
hand  was  upon  his  chest  in  an  attempt  to  thwart  the  going 
of  his  life,  the  blood  came  between  his  fingers.  In  the  far 
Algerian  distance,  a  city  of  low  square  forms  was  set  against 
a  sky  that  was  faint  with  the  last  sunset  hues.  The  cor 
respondent,  plying  the  oars  and  dreaming  of  the  slow  and 
slower  movements  of  the  lips  of  the  soldier,  was  moved  by 
a  profound  and  perfectly  impersonal  comprehension.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  soldier  of  the  Legion  who  lay  dying  in 
Algiers. 

The  thing  which  had  followed  the  boat  and  waited,  had 
evidently  grown  bored  at  the  delay.  There  was  no  longer 
to  be  heard  the  slash  of  the  cut-water,  and  there  was  no 
longer  the  flame  of  the  long  trail.  The  light  in  the  north 
still  glimmered,  but  it  was  apparently  no  nearer  to  the  boat. 
Sometimes  the  boom  of  the  surf  rang  in  the  correspondent's 
ears,  and  he  turned  the  craft  seaward  then  and  rowed  harder. 
Southward,  some  one  had  evidently  built  a  watch-fire  on 


48  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

the  beach.  It  was  too  low  and  too  far  to  be  seen,  but  it 
made  a  shimmering,  roseate  reflection  upon  the  bluff  back 
of  it,  and  this  could  be  discerned  from  the  boat.  The  wind 
came  stronger,  and  sometimes  a  wave  suddenly  raged  out 
like  a  mountain-cat,  and  there  was  to  be  seen  the  sheen  and 
sparkle  of  a  broken  crest. 

The  captain,  in  the  bow,  moved  on  his  water- jar  and  sat 
erect.  "Pretty  long  night,"  he  observed  to  the  correspond 
ent.  He  looked  at  the  shore.  "Those  life-saving  people 
take  their  time." 

"Did  you  see  that  shark  playing  around?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him.     He  was  a  big  fellow,  all  right." 

"Wish  I  had  known  you  were  awake." 

Later  the  correspondent  spoke  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"Billie!"  There  was  a  slow  and  gradual  disentanglement. 
"Billie,  will  you  spell  me?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  oiler. 

As  soon  as  the  correspondent  touched  the  cold  comfortable 
sea-water  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  had  huddled  close 
to  the  cook's  life-belt  he  was  deep  in  sleep,  despite  the  fact 
that  his  teeth  played  all  the  popular  airs.  This  sleep  was  so 
good  to  him  that  it  was  but  a  moment  before  he  heard  a 
voice  call  his  name  in  a  tone  that  demonstrated  the  last 
stages  of  exhaustion.  "Will  you  spell  me?" 

"Sure,  Billie." 

The  light  in  the  north  had  mysteriously  vanished,  but  the 
correspondent  took  his  course  from  the  wide-awake  captain. 

Later  in  the  night  they  took  the  boat  farther  out  to  sea, 
and  the  captain  directed  the  cook  to  take  one  oar  at  the 
stern  and  keep  the  boat  facing  the  seas.  He  was  to  call 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  49 

out  if  he  should  hear  the  thunder  of  the  surf.  This  plan 
enabled  the  oiler  and  the  correspondent  to  get  respite  to 
gether.  "We'll  give  those  boys  a  chance  to  get  into  shape 
again/'  said  the  captain.  They  curled  down  and,  after  a 
few  preliminary  chatterings  and  trembles,  slept  once  more 
the  dead  sleep.  Neither  knew  they  had  bequeathed  to  the 
cook  the  company  of  another  shark,  or  perhaps  the  same 
shark. 

As  the  boat  caroused  on  the  waves,  spray  occasionally 
bumped  over  the  side  and  gave  them  a  fresh  soaking,  but 
this  had  no  power  to  break  their  repose.  The  ominous  slash 
of  the  wind  and  the  water  affected  them  as  it  would  have 
affected  mummies. 

"Boys,"  said  the  cook,  with  the  notes  of  every  reluctance 
in  his  voice,  "she's  drifted  in  pretty  close.  I  guess  one  of 
you  had  better  take  her  to  sea  again."  The  correspondent, 
aroused,  heard  the  crash  of  the  toppled  crests. 

As  he  was  rowing,  the  captain  gave  him  some  whisky-and- 
water,  and  this  steadied  the  chills  out  of  him.  "If  I  ever  get 
ashore  and  anybody  shows  me  even  a  photograph  of  an 


At  last  there  was  a  short  conversation. 
"Billie.  .  .  .     Billie,  will  you  spell  me?" 
"Sure,"  said  the  oiler. 

VII 

WHEN  the  correspondent  again  opened  his  eyes,  the  sea 
and  the  sky  were  each  of  the  grey  hue  of  the  dawning. 
Later,  carmine  and  gold  was  painted  upon  the  waters.  The 


50  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

morning  appeared  finally,  in  its  splendor,  with  a  sky  of 
pure  blue,  and  the  sunlight  flamed  on  the  tips  of  the  waves. 

On  the  distant  dunes  were  set  many  little  black  cottages, 
and  a  tall  white  windmill  reared  above  them.  No  man,  nor 
dog,  nor  bicycle  appeared  on  the  beach.  The  cottages  might 
have  formed  a  deserted  village. 

The  voyagers  scanned  the  shore.  A  conference  was  held 
in  the  boat.  "Well,"  said  the  captain,  "if  no  help  is  coming 
we  might  better  try  a  run  through  the  surf  right  away.  If 
we  stay  out  here  much  longer  we  will  be  too  weak  to  do  any 
thing  for  ourselves  at  all."  The  others  silently  acquiesced  in 
this  reasoning.  The  boat  was  headed  for  the  beach.  The 
correspondent  wondered  if  none  ever  ascended  the  tall  wind- 
tower,  and  if  then  they  never  looked  seaward.  This  tower 
was  a  giant,  standing  with  its  back  to  the  plight  of  the  ants. 
It  represented  in  a  degree,  to  the  correspondent,  the  serenity 
of  nature  amid  the  struggles  of  the  individual — nature  in  the 
wind,  and  nature  in  the  vision  of  men.  She  did  not  seem 
cruel  to  him  then,  nor  beneficent,  nor  treacherous,  nor  wise. 
But  she  was  indifferent,  flatly  indifferent.  It  is,  perhaps, 
plausible  that  a  man  in  this  situation,  impressed  with  the 
unconcern  of  the  universe,  should  see  the  innumerable  flaws 
of  his  life,  and  have  them  taste  wickedly  in  his  mind  and 
wish  for  another  chance.  A  distinction  between  right  and 
wrong  seems  absurdly  clear  to  him,  then,  in  this  new  ignor 
ance  of  the  grave-edge,  and  he  understands  that  if  he  were 
given  another  opportunity  he  would  mend  his  conduct  and 
his  words,  and  be  better  and  brighter  during  an  introduction 
or  at  a  tea. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  captain,  "she  is  going  to  swamp, 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  51 

sure.  All  we  can  do  is  to  work  her  in  as  far  as  possible,  and 
then  when  she  swamps,  pile  out  and  scramble  for  the  beach. 
Keep  cool  now,  and  don't  jump  until  she  swamps  sure." 

The  oiler  took  the  oars.  Over  his  shoulders  he  scanned 
the  surf.  "Captain/'  he  said,  "I  think  I'd  better  bring  her 
about,  and  keep  her  head-on  to  the  seas  and  back  her  in." 

"All  right,  Billie,"  said  the  captain.  "Back  her  in."  The 
oiler  swung  the  boat  then  and,  seated  in  the  stern,  the  cook 
and  the  correspondent  were  obliged  to  look  over  their  shoul 
ders  to  contemplate  the  lonely  and  indifferent  shore. 

The  monstrous  in-shore  rollers  heaved  the  boat  high  until 
the  men  were  again  enabled  to  see  the  white  sheets  of  water 
scudding  up  the  slanted  beach.  "We  won't  get  in  very  close," 
said  the  captain.  Each  time  a  man  could  wrest  his  atten 
tion  from  the  rollers,  he  turned  his  glance  toward  the  shore, 
and  in  the  expression  of  the  eyes  during  this  contemplation 
there  was  a  singular  quality.  The  correspondent,  observing 
the  others,  knew  that  they  were  not  afraid,  but  the  full 
meaning  of  their  glances  was  shrouded. 

As  for  himself,  he  was  too  tired  to  grapple  fundamentally 
with  the  fact.  He  tried  to  coerce  his  mind  into  thinking  oi 
it,  but  the  mind  was  dominated  at  this  time  by  the  muscles, 
and  the  muscles  said  they  did  not  care.  It  merely  occurred 
to  him  that  if  he  should  drown  it  would  be  a  shame. 

There  were  no  hurried  words,  no  pallor,  no  plain  agitation. 
The  men  simply  looked  at  the  shore.  "Now,  remember  to 
get  well  clear  of  the  boat  when  you  jump,"  said  the  captain. 

Seaward  the  crest  of  a  roller  suddenly  fell  with  a  thunder 
ous  crash,  and  the  long  white  comber  came  roaring  down 
upon  the  boat. 


52  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Steady  now/'  said  the  captain.  The  men  were  silent. 
They  turned  their  eyes  from  the  shore  to  the  comber  and 
waited.  The  boat  slid  up  the  incline,  leaped  at  the  furi 
ous  top,  bounced  over  it,  and  swung  down  the  long  back 
of  the  wave.  Some  water  had  been  shipped  and  the  cook 
bailed  it  out. 

But  the  next  crest  crashed  also.  The  tumbling,  boiling 
flood  of  white  water  caught  the  boat  and  whirled  it  almost 
perpendicular.  Water  swarmed  in  from  all  sides.  The  cor 
respondent  had  his  hands  on  the  gunwale  at  this  time,  and 
when  the  water  entered  at  that  place  he  swiftly  withdrew 
his  fingers,  as  if  he  objected  to  wetting  them. 

The  little  boat,  drunken  with  this  weight  of  water,  reeled 
and  snuggled  deeper  into  the  sea. 

"Bail  her  out,  cook!     Bail  her  out,"  said  the  captain. 

"All  right,  captain,"  said  the  cook. 

"Now,  boys,  the  next  one  will  do  for  us,  sure,"  said  the 
oiler.  "Mind  to  jump  clear  of  the  boat." 

The  third  wave  moved  forward,  huge,  furious,  implacable. 
It  fairly  swallowed  the  dingey,  and  almost  simultaneously 
the  men  tumbled  into  the  sea.  A  piece  of  lifebelt  had 
lain  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  as  the  correspond 
ent  went  overboard  he  held  this  to  his  chest  with  his  left 
hand. 

The  January  water  was  icy,  and  he  reflected  immediately 
that  it  was  colder  than  he  had  expected  to  find  it  on  the 
coast  of  Florida.  This  appeared  to  his  dazed  mind  as  a  fact 
important  enough  to  be  noted  at  the  time.  The  coldness  of 
the  water  was  sad;  it  was  tragic.  This  fact  was  someho^ 
so  mixed  and  confused  with  his  opinion  of  his  own  situation 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  53 

that  it  seemed  almost  a  proper  reason  for  tears.  The  water 
was  cold. 

When  he  came  to  the  surface  he  was  conscious  of  little 
but  the  noisy  water.  Afterward  he  saw  his  companions  in 
the  sea.  The  oiler  was  ahead  in  the  race.  He  was  swim 
ming  strongly  and  rapidly.  Off  to  the  correspondent's  left, 
the  cook's  great  white  and  corked  back  bulged  out  of  the 
water,  and  in  the  rear  the  captain  was  hanging  with  his  one 
good  hand  to  the  keel  of  the  overturned  dingey. 

There  is  a  certain  immovable  quality  to  a  shore,  and  the 
correspondent  wondered  at  it  amid  the  confusion  of  the  sea. 

It  seemed  also  very  attractive,  but  the  correspondent  knew 
that  it  was  a  long  journey,  and  he  paddled  leisurely.  The 
piece  of  life-preserver  lay  under  him,  and  sometimes  he 
whirled  down  the  incline  of  a  wave  as  if  he  were  on  a  hand- 
sled. 

But  finally  he  arrived  at  a  place  in  the  sea  where  travel 
was  beset  with  difficulty.  He  did  not  pause  swimming  to 
inquire  what  manner  of  current  had  caught  him,  but  there 
his  progress  ceased.  The  shore  was  set  before  him  like  a 
bit  of  scenery  on  a  stage,  and  he  looked  at  it  and  under 
stood  with  his  eyes  each  detail  of  it. 

As  the  cook  passed,  much  farther  to  the  left,  the  captain 
was  calling  to  him,  "Turn  over  on  your  back,  cook!  Turn 
over  on  your  back  and  use  the  oar." 

"All  right,  sir."  The  cook  turned  on  his  back,  and, 
paddling  with  an  oar,  went  ahead  as  if  he  were  a  canoe. 

Presently  the  boat  also  passed  to  the  left  of  the  correspond 
ent  with  the  captain  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  keel.  He 
would  have  appeared  like  a  man  raising  himself  to  look  over 


54  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

a  board  fence,  if  it  were  not  for  the  extraordinary  gymnas 
tics  of  the  boat.  The  correspondent  marvelled  that  the  cap 
tain  could  still  hold  to  it. 

They  passed  on,  nearer  to  shore— the  oiler,  the  cook,  the 
captain — and  following  them  went  the  water-jar,  bouncing 
gaily  over  the  seas. 

The  correspondent  remained  in  the  grip  of  this  strange 
new  enemy — a  current.  The  shore,  with  its  white  slope  of 
sand  and  its  green  bluff,  topped  with  little  silent  cottages, 
was  spread  like  a  picture  before  him.  It  was  very  near  to 
him  then,  but  he  was  impressed  as  one  who  in  a  gallery  looks 
at  a  scene  from  Brittany  or  Holland. 

He  thought:  "I  am  going  to  drown?  Can  it  be  possible? 
Can  it  be  possible?  Can  it  be  possible?"  Perhaps  an  indi 
vidual  must  consider  his  own  death  to  be  the  final  phenome 
non  of  nature. 

But  later  a  wave  perhaps  whirled  him  out  of  this  small, 
deadly  current,  for  he  found  suddenly  that  he  could  again 
make  progress  toward  the  shore.  Later  still,  he  was  aware 
that  the  captain,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  keel  of  the 
dingey,  had  his  face  turned  away  from  the  shore  and  to 
ward  him,  and  was  calling  his  name.  "Come  to  the  boat! 
Come  to  the  boat!" 

In  his  struggle  to  reach  the  captain  and  the  boat,  he  re 
flected  that  when  one  gets  properly  wearied,  drowning  must 
really  be  a  comfortable  arrangement,  a  cessation  of  hostili 
ties  accompanied  by  a  large  degree  of  relief,  and  he  was  glad 
of  it,  for  the  main  thing  in  his  mind  for  some  months  had 
been  horror  of  the  temporary  agony.  He  did  not  wish  to 
be  hurt. 


THE  OPEN  BOAT  55 

Presently  he  saw  a  man  running  along  the  shore.  He  was 
undressing  with  most  remarkable  speed.  Coat,  trousers, 
shirt,  everything  flew  magically  off  him. 

"Come  to  the  boat,"  called  the  captain. 

"All  right,  captain."  As  the  correspondent  paddled,  he 
saw  the  captain  let  himself  down  to  bottom  and  leave  the 
boat.  Then  the  correspondent  performed  his  one  little  mar 
vel  of  the  voyage.  A  large  wave  caught  him  and  flung  him 
with  ease  and  supreme  speed  completely  over  the  boat  and 
far  beyond  it.  It  struck  him  even  then  as  an  event  in  gym 
nastics,  and  a  true  miracle  of  the  sea.  An  over-turned  boat 
in  the  surf  is  not  a  plaything  to  a  swimming  man. 

The  correspondent  arrived  in  water  that  reached  only  to 
his  waist,  but  his  condition  did  not  enable  him  to  stand  for 
more  than  a  moment.  Each  wave  knocked  him  into  a  heap, 
and  the  under-tow  pulled  at  him. 

Then  he  saw  the  man  who  had  been  running  and  undress 
ing,  and  undressing  and  running,  come  bounding  into  the 
water.  He  dragged  ashore  the  cook,  and  then  waded  towards 
the  captain,  but  the  captain  waved  him  away,  and  sent  him 
to  the  correspondent.  He  was  naked,  naked  as  a  tree  in  win 
ter,  but  a  halo  was  about  his  head,  and  he  shone  like  a  saint. 
He  gave  a  strong  pull,  and  a  long  drag,  and  a  bully  heave 
at  the  correspondent's  hand.  The  correspondent,  schooled 
in  the  minor  formulae,  said:  "Thanks,  old  man."  But  sud 
denly  the  man  cried:  "What's  that?"  He  pointed  a  swift 
finger.  The  correspondent  said:  "Go." 

In  the  shallows,  face  downward,  lay  the  oiler.  His  fore 
head  touched  sand  that  was  periodically,  between  each  wave, 
clear  of  the  sea. 


56  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

The  correspondent  did  not  know  all  that  transpired  after 
ward.  When  he  achieved  safe  ground  he  fell,  striking  the 
sand  with  each  particular  part  of  his  body.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  dropped  from  a  roof,  but  the  thud  was  grateful  to  him. 

It  seems  that  instantly  the  beach  was  populated  with  men 
with  blankets,  clothes,  and  flaskft,  and  women  with  coffee 
pots  and  all  the  remedies  sacred  to  their  minds.  The  wel 
come  of  the  land  to  the  men  from  the  sea  was  warm  and 
generous,  but  a  still  and  dripping  shape  was  carried  slowly 
up  the  beach,  and  the  land's  welcome  for  it  could  only  be 
the  different  and  sinister  hospitality  of  the  grave. 

When  it  came  night,  the  white  waves  paced  to  and  fro 
in  the  moonlight,  and  the  wind  brought  the  sound  of  the 
[Tf.-it.  ',f,y-.  V(Act  tO  tfac  nv:n  or,  ihore,  and  t.hfy  jY.lt.  t.;i?it  t.hey 
could  then  be  interpreters. 


THE   RELUCTANT   VOYAGERS 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS 
CHAPTER  I 

Two  men  sat  by  the  sea  waves. 

"Well,  I  know  I'm  not  handsome,"  said  one  gloomily. 
He  was  poking  holes  in  the  sand  with  a  discontented  cane. 

The  companion  was  watching  the  waves  play.  He  seemed 
overcome  with  perspiring  discomfort  as  a  man  who  is  re 
solved  to  set  another  man  right. 

Suddenly  his  mouth  turned  into  a  straight  line. 

"To  be  sure  you  are  not,"  he  cried  vehemently. 

"You  look  like  thunder.  I  do  not  desire  to  be  unpleasant, 
but  I  must  assure  you  that  your  freckled  skin  continually 
reminds  spectators  of  white  wall  paper  with  gilt  roses  on  it. 
The  top  of  your  head  looks  like  a  little  wooden  plate.  And 
your  figure — heavens!" 

For  a  time  they  were  silent.  They  stared  at  the  waves 
that  purred  near  their  feet  like  sleepy  sea-kittens. 

Finally  the  first  man  spoke. 

"Well,"  said  he,  defiantly,  "what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it?"  exploded  the  other.  "Why,  it  means  that 
you'd  look  like  blazes  in  a  bathing-suit." 

They  were  again  silent.  The  freckled  man  seemed 
ashamed.  His  tall  companion  glowered  at  the  scenery. 

59 


60  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"I  am  decided,"  said  the  freckled  man  suddenly.  He 
got  boldly  up  from  the  sand  and  strode  away.  The  tall 
man  followed,  walking  sarcastically  and  glaring  down  at  the 
round,  resolute  figure  before  him. 

A  bath-clerk  was  looking  at  the  world  with  superior  eyes 
through  a  hole  in  a  board.  To  him  the  freckled  man  made 
application,  waving  his  hands  over  his  person  in  illustration 
of  a  snug  fit.  The  bath-clerk  thought  profoundly.  Event 
ually,  he  handed  out  a  blue  bundle  with  an  air  of  having 
phenomenally  solved  the  freckled  man's  dimensions. 

The  latter  resumed  his  resolute  stride. 

"See  here,"  said  the  tall  man,  following  him,  "I  bet  you've 
got  a  regular  toga,  you  know.  That  fellow  couldn't  tell " 

"Yes,  he  could,"  interrupted  the  freckled  man,  "I  saw 
correct  mathematics  in  his  eyes." 

"Well,  supposin'  he  has  missed  your  size.     Supposin' " 

"Tom,"  again  interrupted  the  other,  "produce  your  proud 
clothes  and  we'll  go  in." 

The  tall  man  swore  bitterly.  He  went  to  one  of  a  row 
of  little  wooden  boxes  and  shut  himself  in  it.  His  com 
panion  repaired  to  a  similar  box. 

At  first  he  felt  like  an  opulent  monk  in  a  too-small  cell, 
and  he  turned  round  two  or  three  times  to  see  if  he  could. 
He  arrived  finally  into  his  bathing-dress.  Immediately  he 
dropped  gasping  upon  a  three-cornered  bench.  The  suit  fell 
in  folds  about  his  reclining  form.  There  was  silence,  save 
for  the  caressing  calls  of  the  waves  without. 

Then  he  heard  two  shoes  drop  on  the  floor  in  one  of  the 
little  coops.  He  began  to  clamor  at  the  boards  like,  a  peni 
tent  at  an  unforgiving  door. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS 


"Tom,"  called  he,  "Tom- 


A  voice  of  wrath,  muffled  by  cloth,  came  through  the 
wails.  "You  go  t'  blazes!" 

The  freckled  man  began  to  groan,  taking  the  occupants 
of  the  entire  row  of  coops  into  his  confidence. 

"Stop  your  noise,"  angrily  cried  the  tall  man  from  his 
hidden  den.  "You  rented  the  bathing-suit,  didn't  you? 
Then " 

"It  ain't  a  bathing-suit,"  shouted  the  freckled  man  at  the 
boards.  "It's  an  auditorium,  a  ballroom,  or  something.  It 
ain't  a  bathing-suit." 

The  tall  man  came  out  of  his  box.  His  suit  looked  like 
blue  skin.  He  walked  with  grandeur  down  the  alley  be 
tween  the  rows  of  coops.  Stopping  in  front  of  his  friend's 
door,  he  rapped  on  it  with  passionate  knuckles. 

"Come  out  of  there,  y'  ol'  fool,"  said  he,  in  an  enraged 
whisper.  "It's  only  your  accursed  vanity.  Wear  it  any 
how.  What  difference  does  it  make?  I  never  saw  such  a 
vain  ol*  idiot!" 

As  he  was  storming  the  door  opened,  and  his  friend  con 
fronted  him.  The  tall  man's  legs  gave  way,  and  he  fell 
against  the  opposite  door. 

The  freckled  man  regarded  him  sternly. 

"You're  an  ass,"  he  said. 

His  back  curved  in  scorn.  He  walked  majestically  down 
the  alley.  There  was  pride  in  the  way  his  chubby  feet 
patted  the  boards.  The  tall  man  followed,  weakly,  his  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  figure  ahead. 

As  a  disguise  the  freckled  man  had  adopted  the  stomp r"1 
of  importance.  He  moved  with  an  air  of  some  sort  of  pr .- 


62  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

cession,  across  a  board  walk,  down  some  steps,  and  out  upon 
the  sand. 

There  was  a  pug  dog  and  three  old  women  on  a  bench,  a 
man  and  a  maid  with  a  book  and  a  parasol,  a  seagull  drift 
ing  high  in  the  wind,  and  a  distant,  tremendous  meeting  of 
sea  and  sky.  Down  on  the  wet  sand  stood  a  girl  being  wooed 
by  the  breakers. 

The  freckled  man  moved  with  stately  tread  along  the 
beach.  The  tall  man,  numb  with  amazement,  came  in  the 
rear.  They  neared  the  girl. 

Suddenly  the  tall  man  was  seized  with  convulsions.  He 
laughed,  and  the  girl  turned  her  head. 

She  perceived  the  freckled  man  in  the  bathing-suit.  An 
expression  of  wonderment  overspread  her  charming  face.  It 
changed  in  a  moment  to  a  pearly  smile. 

This  smile  seemed  to  smite  the  freckled  man.  He  obvi 
ously  tried  to  swell  and  fit  his  suit.  Then  he  turned  a  shriv 
elling  glance  upon  his  companion,  and  fled  up  the  beach. 
The  tall  man  ran  after  him,  pursuing  with  mocking  cries 
that  tingled  his  flesh  like  stings  of  insects.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  lead  the  way  out  of  the  world.  But  at  last  he 
stopped  and  faced  about. 

"Tom  Sharp,"  said  he,  between  his  clenched  teeth,  "you 
are  an  unutterable  wretch!  I  could  grind  your  bones  under 
my  heel." 

The  tall  man  was  in  a  trance,  with  glazed  eyes  fixed  on 
the  bathing-dress.  He  seemed  to  be  murmuring:  "Oh, 
good  Lord!  Oh,  good  Lord!  I  never  saw  such  a  suit!" 

The  freckled  man  made  the  gesture  of  an  assassin. 

"Tom  Sharp,  you " 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       63 

The  other  was  still  murmuring:   "Oh,  good  Lord!     I  never 

saw  such  a  suit!     I  never " 

The  freckled  man  ran  down  into  the  sea. 

CHAPTER   II 

THE  cool,  swirling  waters  took  his  temper  from  him,  and 
it  became  a  thing  that  is  lost  in  the  ocean.  The  tall  man 
floundered  in,  and  the  two  forgot  and  rollicked  in  the 
waves. 

The  freckled  man,  in  endeavoring  to  escape  from  man 
kind,  had  left  all  save  a  solitary  fisherman  under  a  large 
hat,  and  three  boys  in  bathing-dress,  laughing  and  splashing 
upon  a  raft  made  of  old  spars. 

The  two  men  swam  softly  over  the  ground  swells. 

The  three  boys  dived  from  their  raft,  and  turned  their 
jolly  faces  shorewards.  It  twisted  slowly  around  and  aroundr 
and  began  to  move  seaward  on  some  unknown  voyage.  The 
freckled  man  laid  his  face  to  the  water  and  swam  toward 
the  raft  with  a  practised  stroke.  The  tall  man  followed,  his 
bended  arm  appearing  and  disappearing  with  the  precision 
of  machinery. 

The  craft  crept  away,  slowly  and  wearily,  as  if  luring. 
The  little  wooden  plate  on  the  freckled  man's  head  looked 
at  the  shore  like  a  round,  brown  eye,  but  his  gaze  was  fixed 
on  the  raft  that  slyly  appeared  to  be  waiting.  The  tall  man 
used  the  little  wooden  plate  as  a  beacon. 

At  length  the  freckled  man  reached  the  raft  and  climbed 
aboard.  He  lay  down  on  his  back  and  puffed.  His  bath 
ing-dress  spread  about  him  like  a  dead  balloon.  The  tall 


64  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

man  came,  snorted,  shook  his  tangled  locks  and  lay  down 
by  the  side  of  his  companion. 

They  were  overcome  with  a  delicious  drowsiness.  The 
planks  of  the  raft  seemed  to  fit  their  tired  limbs.  They 
gazed  dreamily  up  into  the  vast  sky  of  summer. 

"This  is  great,"  said  the  tall  man.  His  companion  grunted 
blissfully. 

Gentle  hands  from  the  sea  rocked  their  craft  and  lulled 
them  to  peace.  Lapping  waves  sang  little  rippling  sea-songs 
about  them.  The  two  men  issued  contented  groans.. 

"Tom,"  said  the  freckled  man. 

"What?"  said  the  other. 

"This  is  great." 

They  lay  and  thought. 

A  fish-hawk,  soaring,  suddenly,  turned  and  darted  at  the 
waves.  The  tall  man  indolently  twisted  his  head  and 
watched  the  bird  plunge  its  claws  into  the  water.  It  heavily 
arose  with  a  silver  gleaming  fish. 

"That  bird  has  got  his  feet  wet  again.  It's  a  shame," 
murmured  the  tall  man  sleepily.  "He  must  suffer  from  an 
endless  cold  in  the  head.  He  should  wear  rubber  boots. 
They'd  look  great,  too.  If  I  was  him,  I'd— Great  Scott!" 

He  had  partly  arisen,  and  was  looking  at  the  shore. 

He  began  to  scream.     "Ted!     Ted!     Ted!     Look!" 

"What's  matter?"  dreamily  spoke  the  freckled  man.  "You 
remind  me  of  when  I  put  the  bird-shot  in  your  leg."  He 
giggled  softly. 

The  agitated  tall  man  made  a  gesture  of  supreme  elo 
quence.  His  companion  up-reared  and  turned  a  startled 
gaze  shoreward. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       65 

"Lord!"  he  roared,  as  if  stabbed. 

The  land  was  a  long,  brown  streak  with  a  rim  of  green, 
in  which  sparkled  the  tin  roofs  of  huge  hotels.  The  hands 
from  the  sea  had  pushed  them  away.  The  two  men  sprang 
erect,  and  did  a  little  dance  of  perturbation. 

"What  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we  do?"  moaned  the 
freckled  man,  wriggling  fantastically  in  his  dead  balloon. 

The  changing  shore  seemed  to  fascinate  the  tall  man,  and 
for  a  time  he  did  not  speak. 

Suddenly  he  concluded  his  minuet  of  horror.  He  wheeled 
about  and  faced  the  freckled  man.  He  elaborately  folded 
his  arms. 

"So,"  he  said,  in  slow,  formidable  tones.  "So!  This  all 
comes  from  your  accursed  vanity,  your  bathing-suit,  your 
idiocy;  you  have  murdered  your  best  friend." 

He  turned  away.  His  companion  reeled  as  if  stricken  by 
an  unexpected  arm. 

He  stretched  out  his  hands.  "Tom,  Tom,"  wailed  he, 
beseechingly,  "don't  be  such  a  fool." 

The  broad  back  of  his  friend  was  occupied  by  a  con 
temptuous  sneer. 

Three  ships  fell  off  the  horizon.  Landward,  the  hues  were 
blending.  The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  sounded  from  an  in 
finite  distance  as  if  tooting  in  heaven. 

"Tom!  Tom!  My  dear  boy,"  quavered  the  freckled 
man,  "don't  speak  that  way  to  me." 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  the  other,  still  facing  away 
and  throwing  the  words  over  his  shoulder.  "You  suppose  I 
am  going  to  accept  all  this  calmly,  don't  you?  Not  make 
the  slightest  objection?  Make  no  protest  at  all,  hey?" 


66  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Well,  I— I "  began  the  freckled  man. 

The  tall  man's  wrath  suddenly  exploded.  "You've  ab 
ducted  me!  That's  the  whole  amount  of  it!  You've  ab 
ducted  me!" 

"I  ain't,"  protested  the  freckled  man.  "You  must  think 
I'm  a  fool." 

The  tall  man  swore,  and  sitting  down,  dangled  his  legs 
angrily  in  the  water.  Natural  law  compelled  his  companion 
to  occupy  the  other  end  of  the  raft. 

Over  the  waters  little  shoals  of  fish  spluttered,  raising  tiny 
tempests.  Languid  jelly-fish  floated  near,  tremulously  wav 
ing  a  thousand  legs.  A  row  of  porpoises  trundled  along  like 
a  procession  of  cog-wheels.  The  sky  became  greyed  save 
where  over  the  land  sunset  colors  were  assembling. 

The  two  voyagers,  back  to  back  and  at  either  end  of  the 
raft,  quarrelled  at  length. 

"What  did  you  want  to  follow  me  for?"  demanded  the 
freckled  man  in  a  voice  of  indignation. 

"If  your  figure  hadn't  been  so  like  a  bottle,  we  wouldn't 
be  here,"  replied  the  tall  man. 

CHAPTER   III 

THE  fires  in  the  west  blazed  away,  and  solemnity  spread 
over  the  sea.  Electric  lights  began  to  blink  like  eyes.  Night 
menaced  the  voyagers  with  a  dangerous  darkness,  and  fear 
came  to  bind  their  souls  together.  They  huddled  fraternally 
in  the  middle  of  the  raft. 

"I  feel  like  a  mol*c»H"  said  the  freckM  man  in  subdued 
tones. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       67 

"I'd  give  two  dollars  for  a  cigar,"  muttered  the  tall  man. 

A  V-shaped  flock  of  ducks  flew  towards  Barnegat,  be 
tween  the  voyagers  and  a  remnant  of  yellow  sky.  Shadows 
and  winds  came  from  the  vanished  eastern  horizon. 

"I  think  I  hear  voices,"  said  the  freckled  man. 

"That  Dollie  Ramsdell  was  an  awfully  nice  girl,"  said  the 
tall  man. 

When  the  coldness  of  the  sea  night  came  to  them,  the 
freckled  man  found  he  could  by  a  peculiar  movement  of 
his  legs  and  arms  encase  himself  in  his  bathing-dress.  The 
tall  man  was  compelled  to  whistle  and  shiver.  As  night 
settled  finally  over  the  sea,  red  and  green  lights  began  to 
dot  the  blackness.  There  were  mysterious  shadows  between 
the  waves. 

"I  see  things  comin',"  murmured  the  freckled  man. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  ordered  that  new  dress-suit  for  the  hop 
to-morrow  night,"  said  the  tall  man  reflectively. 

The  sea  became  uneasy  and  heaved  painfully,  like  a  lost 
bosom,  when  little  forgotten  heart-bells  try  to  chime  with  a 
pure  sound.  The  voyagers  cringed  at  magnified  foam  on  dis 
tant  wave  crests.  A  moon  came  and  looked  at  them. 

"Somebody's  here,"  whispered  the  freckled  man. 

"I  wish  I  had  an  almanac,"  remarked  the  tall  man,  re 
garding  the  moon. 

Presently  they  fell  to  staring  at  the  red  and  green  lights 
that  twinkled  about  them. 

"Providence  will  not  leave  us,"  asserted  the  freckled  man. 

"'Oh,  we'll  be  picked  up  shortly.  I  owe  money,"  said 
the  tall  man. 

He  began  to  thrum  on  an  imaginary  banjo. 


68  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"I  have  heard,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "that  captains  with 
healthy  ships  beneath  their  feet  will  never  turn  back  after 
having  once  started  on  a  voyage.  In  that  case  we  will  be 
rescued  by  some  ship  bound  for  the  golden  seas  of  the  south. 
Then,  you'll  be  up  to  some  of  your  confounded  devilment, 
and  we'll  get  put  off.  They'll  maroon  us!  That's  what 
they'll  do!  They'll  maroon  us!  On  an  island  with  palm 
trees  and  sun-kissed  maidens  and  all  that.  Sun-kissed  maid 
ens,  eh?  Great!  They'd " 

He  suddenly  ceased  and  turned  to  stone.  At  a  distance 
a  great,  green  eye  was  contemplating  the  sea  wanderers. 

They  stood  up  and  did  another  dance.  As  they  watched 
the  eye  grew  larger. 

Directly  the  form  of  a  phantom-like  ship  came  into  view. 
About  the  great,  green  eye  there  bobbed  small  yellow  dots. 
The  wanderers  could  hear  a  far-away  creaking  of  unseen 
tackle  and  flapping  of  shadowy  sails.  There  came  the  mel 
ody  of  the  waters  as  the  ship's  prow  thrust  its  way. 

The  tall  man  delivered  an  oration. 

"Ha!"  he  exclaimed,  "here  come  our  rescuers.  The  brave 
fellows!  How  I  long  to  take  the  manly  captain  by  the 
hand !  You  will  soon  see  a  white  boat  with  a  star  on  its  bow 
drop  from  the  side  of  yon  ship.  Kind  sailors  in  blue  and 
white  will  help  us  into  the  boat  and  conduct  our  wasted 
frames  to  the  quarter-deck,  where  the  handsome,  bearded 
captain,  with  gold  bands  all  around,  will  welcome  us.  Then 
in  the  hard-oak  cabin,  while  the  wine  gurgles  and  the  Ha- 
vanas  glow,  we'll  tell  our  tale  of  peril  and  privation." 

The  ship  came  on  like  a  black  hurrying  animal  with  froth- 
filled  maw.  The  two  wanderers  stood  up  and  clasped  hands. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       69 

Then  they  howled  out  a  wild  duet  that  rang  over  the  wastes 
of  sea. 

The  cries  seemed  to  strike  the  ship. 

Men  with  boots  on  yelled  and  ran  about  the  deck.  They 
picked  up  heavy  articles  and  threw  them  down.  They  yelled 
more.  After  hideous  creakings  and  flappings,  the  vessel 
stood  still. 

In  the  meantime  the  wanderers  had  been  chanting  theu 
song  for  help.  Out  in  the  blackness  they  beckoned  to  the 
ship  and  coaxed. 

A  voice  came  to  them. 

"Hello,"  it  said. 

They  puffed  out  their  cheeks  and  began  to  shout.  "Hello! 
Hello!  Hello!" 

"Wot  do  yeh  want?"  said  the  voice. 

The  two  wanderers  gazed  at  each  other,  and  sat  suddenly 
down  on  the  raft.  Some  pall  came  sweeping  over  the  sky 
and  quenched  their  stars. 

But  almost  immediately  the  tall  man  got  up  and 
brawled  miscellaneous  information.  He  stamped  his 
foot,  and  frowning  into  the  night,  swore  threateningly. 

The  vessel  seemed  fearful  of  these  moaning  voices  that 
called  from  a  hidden  cavern  of  the  water.  And  now  ore 
voice  was  filled  with  a  menace.  A  number  of  men  with 
enormous  limbs  that  threw  vast  shadows  over  the  sea  as  thu 
lanterns  flickered,  held  a  debate  and  made  gestures. 

Off  in  the  darkness,  the  tall  man  began  to  clamor  like  a 
mob.  The  freckled  man  sat  in  astounded  silence,  with  his 
legs  weak. 

After  a  time  one  of  the  men  of  enormous  limbs  seized  a 


70  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

rope  that  was  tugging  at  the  stern  and  drew  a  small  boat 
from  the  shadows.  Three  giants  clambered  in  and  rowed 
cautiously  toward  the  raft.  Silver  water  flashed  in  the  gloom 
as  the  oars  dipped. 

About  fifty  feet  from  the  raft  the  boat  stopped.  "Who 
er  you?"  asked  a  voice. 

The  tall  man  braced  himself  and  explained.  He  drew 
vivid  pictures,  his  twirling  fingers  illustrating  like  live  brushes. 

"Oh,"  said  the  three  giants. 

The  voyagers  deserted  the  raft.  They  looked  back,  feel 
ing  in  their  hearts  a  mite  of  tenderness  for  the  wet  planks. 
Later,  they  wriggled  up  the  side  of  the  vessel  and  climbed 
over  the  railing. 

On  deck  they  met  a  man. 

He  held  a  lantern  to  their  faces.  "Got  any  chewin'  tew- 
bacca?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  said  the  tall  man,  "we  ain't." 

The  man  had  a  bronze  face  and  solitary  whiskers.  Pecu 
liar  lines  about  his  mouth  were  shaped  into  an  eternal  smile 
of  derision.  His  feet  were  bare,  and  clung  handily  to 
crevices. 

Fearful  trousers  were  supported  by  a  piece  of  suspender 
that  went  up  the  wrong  side  of  his  chest  and  came  down  the 
right  side  of  his  back,  dividing  him  into  triangles. 

"Ezekiel  P.  Sanford,  capt'in,  schooner  'Maty  Jones,1  of 
N'yack,  N.  Y.,  genelmen,"  he  said. 

"Ah!"  said  the  tall  man,  "delighted,  I'm  sure." 

There  were  a  few  moments  of  silence.  The  giants  were 
hovering  in  the  gloom  and  staring. 

Suddenly  astonishment  exploded  the  captain. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       71 

"Wot  th'  devil "  he  shouted.    "Wot  th'  devil  yeh  got 

on?" 

"Bathing-suits,"  said  the  tall  man. 

CHAPTER   IV 

THE  schooner  went  on.  The  two  voyagers  sat  down  and 
watched.  After  a  time  they  began  to  shiver.  The  soft 
blackness  of  the  summer  night  passed  away,  and  grey  mists 
writhed  over  the  sea.  Soon  lights  of  early  dawn  went  chang 
ing  across  the  sky,  and  the  twin  beacons  on  the  highlands 
grew  dim  and  sparkling  faintly,  as  if  a  monster  were  dying. 
The  dawn  penetrated  the  marrow  of  the  two  men  in  bath 
ing-dress. 

The  captain  used  to  pause  opposite  them,  hitch  one  hand 
in  his  suspender,  and  laugh. 

"Well,  I  be  dog-hanged,"  he  frequently  said. 

The  tall  man  grew  furious.  He  snarled  in  a  mad  under 
tone  to  his  companion.  "This  rescue  ain't  right.  If  I  had 
known " 

He  suddenly  paused,  transfixed  by  the  captain's  suspender. 
"It's  goin'  to  break,"  cried  he,  in  an  ecstatic  whisper.  His 
eyes  grew  large  with  excitement  as  he  watched  the  captain 
laugh.  "It'll  break  in  a  minute,  sure." 

But  the  commander  of  the  schooner  recovered,  and  invited 
them  to  drink  and  eat.  They  followed  him  along  the  deck, 
and  fell  down  a  square  black  hole  into  the  cabin. 

It  was  a  little  den,  with  walls  of  a  vanished  whiteness.  A 
lamp  shed  an  orange  light.  In  a  sort  of  recess  two  little 
beds  were  hiding.  A  wooden  table,  immovable,  as  if  the 


72  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

craft  had  been  builded  around  it,  sat  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  Overhead  the  square  hole  was  studded  with  a  dozen 
stars.  A  foot-worn  ladder  led  to  the  heavens. 

The  captain  produced  ponderous  crackers  and  some  cold 
broiled  ham.  Then  he  vanished  in  the  firmament  like  a 
fantastic  comet. 

The  freckled  man  sat  quite  contentedly  like  a  stout  squaw 
in  a  blanket.  The  tall  man  walked  about  the  cabin  and 
sniffed.  He  was  angered  at  the  crudeness  of  the  rescue,  and 
his  shrinking  clothes  made  him  feel  too  large.  He  contem 
plated  his  unhappy  state. 

Suddenly,  he  broke  out.  "I  won't  stand  this,  I  tell  you! 
Heavens  and  earth,  look  at  the — say,  what  in  the  blazes  did 
you  want  to  get  me  in  this  thing  for,  anyhow?  You're  a 
fine  old  duffer,  you  are!  Look  at  that  ham!" 

The  freckled  man  grunted.  He  seemed  somewhat  blissful. 
He  was  seated  upon  a  bench,  comfortably  enwrapped  in  his 
bathing-dress. 

The  tall  man  stormed  about  the  cabin. 

"This  is  an  outrage!  I'll  see  the  captain!  I'll  tell  him 
What  I  think  of " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  pair  of  legs  that  appeared  among 
the  stars.  The  captain  came  down  the  ladder.  He  brought 
a  coffee  pot  from  the  sky. 

The  tall  man  bristled  forward.  He  was  going  to  de 
nounce  everything. 

The  captain  was  intent  upon  the  coffee  pot,  balancing  it 
carefully,  and  leaving  his  unguided  feet  to  find  the  steps 
of  the  ladder. 

But  the  wrath  of  the  tall  man  faded.     He  twirled  his 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       73 

fingers  in  excitement,  and  renewed  his  ecstatic  whisperings 
to  the  freckled  man. 

"It's  going  to  break!  Look,  quick,  look!  It'll  break  in 
a  minute!" 

He  was  transfixed  with  interest,  forgetting  his  wrongs  in 
staring  at  the  perilous  passage. 

But  the  captain  arrived  on  the  floor  with  triumphant  sus 
penders. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "after  yen  have  eat,  maybe  ye'd  like 
t'sleep  some!  If  so,  yeh  can  sleep  on  them  beds." 

The  tall  man  made  no  reply,  save  in  a  strained  undertone. 
"It'll  break  in  about  a  minute!  Look,  Ted,  look  quick!" 

The  freckled  man  glanced  in  a  little  bed  on  which  were 
heaped  boots  and  oilskins.  He  made  a  courteous  gesture. 

"My  dear  sir,  we  could  not  think  of  depriving  you  of 
your  beds.  No,  indeed.  Just  a  couple  of  blankets  if  you 
have  them,  and  we'll  sleep  very  comfortable  on  these 
benches." 

The  captain  protested,  politely  twisting  his  back  and  bob 
bing  his  head.  The  suspenders  tugged  and  creaked.  The 
tall  man  partially  suppressed  a  cry,  and  took  a  step  for 
ward. 

The  freckled  man  was  sleepily  insistent,  and  shortly  the 
captain  gave  over  his  deprecatory  contortions.  He  fetched 
a  pink  quilt  with  yellow  dots  on  it  to  the  freckled  man,  and 
a  black  one  with  red  roses  on  it  to  the  tall  man. 

Again  he  vanished  in  the  firmament.  The  tall  man  gazed 
until  the  last  remnant  of  trousers  disappeared  from  the  sky. 
Then  he  wrapped  himself  up  in  his  quilt  and  lay  down.  The 
freckled  man  was  puffing  contentedly,  swathed  like  an  in- 


y4  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

fant.  The  yellow  polka-dots  rose  and  fell  on  the  vast  pink 
of  his  chest. 

The  wanderers  slept.  In  the  quiet  could  be  heard  the 
groanings  of  timbers  as  the  sea  seemed  to  crunch  them  to 
gether.  The  lapping  of  water  along  the  vessel's  side  sounded 
like  gaspings.  An  hundred  spirits  of  the  wind  had  got  their 
wings  entangled  in  the  rigging,  and,  in  soft  voices,  were 
pleading  to  be  loosened. 

The  freckled  man  was  awakened  by  a  foreign  noise.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his  companion  standing  by  his 
couch. 

His  comrade's  face  was  wan  with  suffering.  His  eyes 
glowed  in  the  darkness.  He  raised  his  arms,  spreading  them 
out  like  a  clergyman  at  a  grave.  He  groaned  deep  in  his 
chest. 

"Good  Lord! "  yelled  the  freckled  man,  starting  up.  "Tom, 
Tom,  what's  th'  matter?" 

The  tall  man  spoke  in  a  fearful  voice.  "To  New  York," 
he  said,  "to  New  York  in  our  bathing-suits." 

The  freckled  man  sank  back.  The  shadows  of  the  cabin 
threw  mysteries  about  the  figure  of  the  tall  man,  arrayed 
like  some  ancient  and  potent  astrologer  in  the  black  quilt 
with  the  red  roses  on  it. 

CHAPTER    V 

DIRECTLY  the  tall  man  went  and  lay  down  and  began  to 
groan. 

The  freckled  man  felt  the  miseries  of  the  world  upon  him. 
He  grew  angry  at  the  tall  man  awakening  him.  They  quar 
relled. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       75 

"Well,"  said  the  tall  man,  finally,  "we're  in  a  fix." 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  other,  sharply. 

They  regarded  the  ceiling  in  silence. 

"What  in  the  thunder  are  we  going  to  do?"  demanded  the 
tall  man,  after  a  time.  His  companion  was  still  silent. 
"Say,"  repeated  he,  angrily,  "what  in  the  thunder  are  we 
going  to  do?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  freckled  man  in  a  dis 
mal  voice. 

"Well,  think  of  something,"  roared  the  other.  "Think  of 
something,  you  old  fool.  You  don't  want  to  make  any  more 
idiots  of  yourself,  do  you?" 

"I  ain't  made  an  idiot  of  myself." 

"Well,  think.     Know  anybody  in  the  city?" 

"I  know  a  fellow  up  in  Harlem,"  said  the  freckled  man. 

"You  know  a  fellow  up  in  Harlem,"  howled  the  tall  man. 
"Up  in  Harlem!  How  the  dickens  are  we  to — say,  you're 
crazy!" 

"We  can  take  a  cab,"  cried  the  other,  waxing  indignant. 

The  tall  man  grew  suddenly  calm.  "Do  you  know  any 
one  else?"  he  asked,  measuredly. 

"I  know  another  fellow  somewhere  on  Park  Place." 

"Somewhere  on  Park  Place,"  repeated  the  tall  man  in  an 
unnatural  manner.  "Somewhere  on  Park  Place."  With  an 
air  of  sublime  resignation  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

The  freckled  man  sat  erect  and  frowned  in  the  direction  of 
his  companion.  "Well,  now,  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  sulk. 
You  make  me  ill!  It's  the  best  we  can  do,  ain't  it?  Hire 

a  cab  and  go  look  that  fellow  up  on  Park What's  that? 

You  can't  afford  it?  What  nonsense!  You  are  getting 


76  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Oh!  Well,  maybe  we  can  beg  some  clothes  of  the  captain. 
Eh?  Did  I  see  'im?  Certainly,  I  saw  'im.  Yes,  it  is  im 
probable  that  a  man  who  wears  trousers  like  that  can  have 
clothes  to  lend.  No,  I  won't  wear  oilskins  and  a  sou'-wester. 
To  Athens?  Of  course  not!  I  don't  know  where  it  is.  Do 
you?  I  thought  not.  With  all  your  grumbling  about  other 
people,  you  never  know  anything  important  yourself.  What? 
Broadway?  I'll  be  hanged  first.  We  can  get  off  at  Harlem, 
man  alive.  There  are  no  cabs  in  Harlem.  I  don't  think  we 
can  bribe  a  sailor  to  take  us  ashore  and  bring  a  cab  to  the 
dock,  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  we  have  nothing  to 
bribe  him  with.  What?  No,  of  course  not.  See  here,  Tom 
Sharp,  don't  you  swear  at  me  like  that.  I  won't  have  it. 
What's  that?  I  ain't,  either.  I  ain't.  What?  I  am  not. 
It's  no  such  thing.  I  ain't.  I've  got  more  than  you  have, 
anyway.  Well,  you  ain't  doing  anything  so  very  brilliant 
yourself — just  lying  there  and  cussin'."  At  length  the  tall 
man  feigned  prodigiously  to  snore.  The  freckled  man 
thought  with  such  vigor  that  he  fell  asleep. 

After  a  time  he  dreamed  that  he  was  in  a  forest  where 
bass  drums  grew  on  trees.  There  came  a  strong  wind  that 
banged  the  fruit  about  like  empty  pods.  A  frightful  din 
was  in  his  ears. 

He  awoke  to  find  the  captain  of  the  schooner  standing 
over  him. 

"We're  at  New  York  now,"  said  the  captain,  raising  his 
Voice  above  the  thumping  and  banging  that  was  being  done 
on  deck,  "an'  I  s'pose  you  fellers  wanta  go  ashore."  He 
chuckled  in  an  exasperating  manner.  "Jes'  sing  out  when 
yeh  wanta  go,"  he  added,  leering  at  the  freckled  man. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       77 

The  tall  man  awoke,  came  over  and  grasped  the  captain 
by  the  throat. 

"If  you  laugh  again  I'll  kill  you,"  he  said. 

The  captain  gurgled  and  waved  his  legs  and  arms. 

"In  the  first  place,"  the  tall  man  continued,  "you  rescued 
us  in  a  deucedly  shabby  manner.  It  makes  me  ill  to  think 
of  it.  I've  a  mind  to  mop  you  'round  just  for  that.  In 
the  second  place,  your  vessel  is  bound  for  Athens,  N.  Y.,  and 
there's  no  sense  in  it.  Now,  will  you  or  will  you  not  turn 
this  ship  about  and  take  us  back  where  our  clothes  are,  or 
to  Philadelphia,  where  we  belong?" 

He  furiously  shook  the  captain.  Then  he  eased  his  grip 
and  awaited  a  reply. 

"I  can't,"  yelled  the  captain,  "I  can't.  This  vessel  don't 
belong  to  me.  I've  got  to— 

"Well,  then,"  interrupted  the  tall  man,  "can  you  lend  us 
some  clothes?" 

"Hain't  got  none,"  replied  the  captain,  promptly.  His 
face  was  red,  and  his  eyes  were  glaring. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  tall  man,  "can  you  lend  us  some 
money?" 

"Hain't  got  none,"  replied  the  captain,  promptly.  Some 
thing  overcame  him  and  he  laughed. 

"Thunderation,"  roared  the  tall  man.  He  seized  the  cap 
tain,  who  began  to  have  wriggling  contortions.  The  tall 
man  kneaded  him  as  if  he  were  biscuits.  "You  infernal 
scoundrel,"  he  bellowed,  "this  whole  affair  is  some  wretched 
plot,  and  you  are  in  it.  I  am  about  to  kill  you." 

The  solitary  whisker  of  the  captain  did  acrobatic  feats 
like  a  strange  demon  upon  his  chin.  His  eyes  stood  peril- 


73  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

ously  from  his  head.  The  suspender  wheezed  and  tugged 
like  the  tackle  of  a  safl. 

Suddenly  the  tall  man  released  his  hold.  Great  expec 
tancy  sat  upon  his  features.  "It's  going  to  break! "  he  cried, 
rubbing  his  hands. 

But  the  captain  howled  and  vanished  in  the  sky. 

The  freckled  man  then  came  forward.  He  appeared  filled 
with  sarcasm. 

"So!"  said  he.  "So,  youVe  settled  the  matter.  The  cap 
tain  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  can  help  us,  and  I 
daresay  he'll  do  anything  he  can  now." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  tall  man.  "If  you  don't  like 
the  way  I  run  things  you  shouldn't  have  come  on  this  trip 
at  all." 

They  had  another  quarrel. 

At  the  end  of  it  they  went  on  deck.  The  captain  stood  at 
the  stern  addressing  the  bow  with  opprobrious  language. 
When  he  perceived  the  voyagers  he  began  to  fling  his  fists 
about  in  the  air. 

"I'm  goin'  to  put  yeh  off!"  he  yelled.  The  wanderers 
stared  at  each  other. 

"Hum,"  said  the  tall  man. 

The  freckled  man  looked  at  his  companion.  "He's  going 
to  put  us  off,  you  see,"  he  said,  complacently. 

The  tall  man  began  to  walk  about  and  move  his  shoulders. 
"I'd  like  to  see  you  do  it,"  he  said,  defiantly. 

The  captain  tugged  at  a  rope.  A  boat  came  at  his  bid 
ding. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  do  it,"  the  tall  man  repeated,  con 
tinually.  An  imperturbable  man  in  rubber  boots  climbed 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       79 

down  in  the  boat  and  seized  the  oars.  The  captain  mo 
tioned  downward.  His  whisker  had  a  triumphant  appear 
ance. 

The  two  wanderers  looked  at  the  boat.  "I  guess  we'll  have 
to  get  in,"  murmured  the  freckled  man. 

The  tall  man  was  standing  like  a  granite  column.  "I 
won't,"  said  he.  "I  won't!  I  don't  care  what  you  do,  but 
I  won't!" 

"Well,  but "  expostulated  the  other.  They  held  a 

furious  debate. 

In  the  meantime  the  captain  was  darting  about  making 
sinister  gestures,  but  the  back  of  the  tall  man  held  him  at 
bay.  The  crew,  much  •  depleted  by  the  departure  of  the 
imperturbable  man  into  the  boat,  looked  on  from  the 
bow. 

"You're  a  fool,"  the  freckled  man  concluded  his  argu 
ment. 

"So?"  inquired  the  tall  man,  highly  exasperated. 

"So!  Well,  if  you  think  you're  so  bright,  we'll  go  in  the 
boat,  and  then  you'll  see." 

He  climbed  down  into  the  craft  and  seated  himself  in  an 
ominous  manner  at  the  stern. 

"You'll  see,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  as  the  latter  flound 
ered  heavily  down.  "You'll  see!" 

The  man  in  rubber  boots  calmly  rowed  the  boat  toward 
the  shore.  As  they  went,  the  captain  leaned  over  the  railing 
and  laughed.  The  freckled  man  was  seated  very  victori 
ously. 

"Well,  wasn't  this  the  right  thing  after  all?"  he  inquired 
in  a  pleasant  voice.  The  tall  man  made  no  reply. 


So  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

CHAPTER    VI 

As  they  neared  the  dock  something  seemed  suddenly  to 
occur  to  the  freckled  man. 

"Great  heavens!"  he  murmured.  He  stared  at  the  ap 
proaching  shore. 

"My,  what  a  plight,  Tommy!"  he  quavered. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  spoke  up  the  tall  man.  "Why,  I 
really  thought  you  liked  it."  He  laughed  in  a  hard  voice. 
"Lord,  what  a  figure  you'll  cut." 

This  laugh  jarred  the  freckled  man's  soul.  He  became 
mad. 

"Thunderation,  turn  the  boat  around!"  he  roared.  "Turn 
'er  round,  quick!  Man  alive,  we  can't — turn  'er  round,  d'ye 
hear!" 

The  tall  man  in  the  stern  gazed  at  his  companion  with 
glowing  eyes. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said.  "We're  going  on.  You  insisted 
upon  it."  He  began  to  prod  his  companion  with  words. 

The  freckled  man  stood  up  and  waved  his  arms. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  tall  man.  "You'll  tip  the  boat 
over." 

The  other  man  began  to  shout. 

"Sit  down!"  said  the  tall  man  again. 

Words  bubbled  from  the  freckled  man's  mouth.  There 
was  a  little  torrent  of  sentences  that  almost  choked  him.  And 
he  protested  passionately  with  his  hands. 

But  the  boat  went  on  to  the  shadow  of  the  docks.  The 
tall  man  was  intent  upon  balancing  it  as  it  rocked  danger 
ously  during  his  comrade's  oration. 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       81 

"Sit  down,"  he  continually  repeated. 

"I  won't,"  raged  the  freckled  man.  "I  won't  do  any 
thing."  The  boat  wobbled  with  these  words. 

"Say,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  oarsman,  "just  turn 
this  boat  round,  will  you?  Where  in  the  thunder  are  you 
taking  us  to,  anyhow?" 

The  oarsman  looked  at  the  sky  and  thought.  Finally  he 
spoke.  "I'm  doin'  what  the  cap'n  sed." 

"Well,  what  in  th'  blazes  do  I  care  what  the  cap'n  sed?" 
demanded  the  freckled  man.  He  took  a  violent  step,  "You 
just  turn  this  round  or — 

The  small  craft  reeled.  Over  one  side  water  came  flash 
ing  in.  The  freckled  man  cried  out  in  fear,  and  gave  a 
jump  to  the  other  side.  The  tall  man  roared  orders,  and  the 
oarsman  made  efforts.  The  boat  acted  for  a  moment  like 
an  animal  on  a  slackened  wire.  Then  it  upset. 

"Sit  down!"  said  the  tall  man,  in  a  final  roar  as  he  was 
plunged  into  the  water.  The  oarsman  dropped  his  oars  to 
grapple  with  the  gunwale.  He  went  down  saying  unknown 
words.  The  freckled  man's  explanation  or  apology  was 
strangled  by  the  water. 

Two  or  three  tugs  let  off  whistles  of  astonishment,  and  con 
tinued  on  their  paths.  A  man  dozing  on  a  dock  aroused 
and  began  to  caper.  The  passengers  on  a  ferry-boat  all  ran 
to  the  near  railing. 

A  miraculous  person  in  a  small  boat  was  bobbing  on  the 
waves  near  the  piers.  He  sculled  hastily  toward  the  scene. 
It  was  a  swirl  of  waters  in  the  midst  of  which  the  dark  bot 
tom  of  the  boat  appeared,  whale-like. 

Two  heads  suddenly  came  up. 


82  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"839,"   said  the  freckled  man,   chokingly.     "That's  itl 

839!" 

"What  is?"  said  the  tall  man. 

"That's  the  number  of  that  feller  on  Park  Place.  I  just 
remembered." 

"You're  the  bloomingest—     "  the  tall  man  said. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,"  interrupted  his  companion.  "If 

you  hadn't "  He  tried  to  gesticulate,  but  one  hand 

held  to  the  keel  of  the  boat,  and  the  other  was  supporting 
the  form  of  the  oarsman.  The  latter  had  fought  a  battle 
with  his  immense  rubber  boots  and  had  been  conquered. 

The  rescuer  in  the  other  small  boat  came  fiercely.  As 
his  craft  glided  up,  he  reached  out  and  grasped  the  tall  man 
by  the  collar  and  dragged  him  into  the  boat,  interrupting 
what  was,  under  the  circumstances,  a  very  brilliant  flow  of 
rhetoric  directed  at  the  freckled  man.  The  oarsman  of  the 
wrecked  craft  was  taken  tenderly  over  the  gunwale  and  laid 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Puffing  and  blowing,  the  freckled 
man  climbed  in. 

"You'll  upset  this  one  before  we  can  get  ashore,"  the 
other  voyager  remarked. 

As  they  turned  toward  the  land  they  saw  that  the  nearest 
dock  was  lined  with  people.  The  freckled  man  gave  a  little 
moan. 

But  the  staring  eyes  of  the  crowd  were  fixed  on  the  limp 
form  of  the  man  in  rubber  boots.  A  hundred  hands  reached 
down  to  help  lift  the  body  up.  On  the  dock  some  men 
grabbed  it  and  began  to  beat  it  and  roll  it.  A  policeman 
tossed  the  spectators  about.  Each  individual  in  the  heaving 
crowd  sought  to  fasten  his  eyes  on  the  blue-tinted  face  of  the 


THE  RELUCTANT  VOYAGERS       83 

man  in  the  rubber  boots.    They  surged  to  and  fro,  while  the 
policeman  beat  them  indiscriminately. 

The  wanderers  came  modestly  up  the  dock  and  gazed 
shrinkingly  at  the  throng.  They  stood  for  a  moment,  hold 
ing  their  breath  to  see  the  first  finger  of  amazement  levelled 
at  them. 

But  the  crowd  bended  and  surged  in  absorbing  anxiety 
to  view  the  man  in  rubber  boots,  whose  face  fascinated 
them.  The  sea-wanderers  were  as  though  they  were  not 
there. 

They  stood  without  the  jam  and  whispered  hurriedly. 

"839,"  said  the  freckled  man. 

"All  right,"  said  the  tall  man. 

Under  the  pommeling  hands  the  oarsman  showed  signs  of 
life.  The  voyagers  watched  him  make  a  protesting  kick  at 
the  leg  of  the  crowd,  the  while  uttering  angry  groans. 

"He's  better,"  said  the  tall  man,  softly;  "let's  make  off." 

Together  they  stole  noiselessly  up  the  dock.  Directly  in 
front  of  it  they  found  a  row  of  six  cabs. 

The  drivers  on  top  were  filled  with  a  mighty  curiosity. 
They  had  driven  hurriedly  from  the  adjacent  ferry-house 
when  they  had  seen  the  first  running  sign  of  an  accident. 
They  were  straining  on  their  toes  and  gazing  at  the  tossing 
backs  of  the  men  in  the  crowd. 

The  wanderers  made  a  little  detour,  and  then  went  rapidly 
towards  a  cab.     They  stopped  in  front  of  it  and  looked  up. 
"Driver,"  called  the  tall  man,  softly. 
The  man  was  intent. 

"Driver,"  breathed  the  freckled  man.  They  stood  for  & 
moment  and  gazed  imploringly. 


84  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

The  cabman  suddenly  moved  his  feet.  "By  Jimmy,  I  bet 
he's  a  gonner,"  he  said,  in  an  ecstacy,  and  he  again  relapsed 
into  a  statue. 

The  freckled  man  groaned  and  wrung  his  hands.  The 
tall  man  climbed  into  the  cab. 

"Come  in  here,"  he  said  to  his  companion.  The  freckled 
man  climbed  in,  and  the  tall  man  reached  over  and  pulled 
the  door  shut.  Then  he  put  his  head  out  the  window. 

"Driver,"  he  roared,  sternly,  "839  Park  Place — and 
quick." 

The  driver  looked  down  and  met  the  eye  of  the  tall  man. 
"Eh?— Oh— 839?  Park  Place?  Yessir."  He  reluctantly 
gave  his  horse  a  clump  on  the  back.  As  the  conveyance 
rattled  off  the  wanderers  huddled  back  among  the  dingy 
cushions  and  heaved  great  breaths  of  relief. 

"Well,  it's  all  over,"  said  the  freckled  man,  finally.  "We're 
about  out  of  it.  And  quicker  than  I  expected.  Much 
quicker.  It  looked  to  me  sometimes  that  we  were  doomed. 
I  am  thankful  to  find  it  not  so.  I  am  rejoiced.  And  I  hope 
and  trust  that  you — well,  I  don't  wish  to — perhaps  it  is  not 
the  proper  time  to — that  is,  I  don't  wish  to  intrude  a  moral 
at  an  inopportune  moment,  but,  my  dear,  dear  fellow,  I 
think  the  time  is  ripe  to  point  out  to  you  that  your  obstin 
acy,  your  selfishness,  your  villainous  temper,  and  your  vari 
ous  other  faults  can  make  it  just  as  unpleasant  for  your  own- 
self,  my  dear  boy,  as  they  frequently  do  for  other  people. 
You  can  see  what  you  brought  us  to,  and  I  most  sincerely 
hope,  my  dear,  dear  fellow,  that  I  shall  soon  see  those  signs 
in  you  which  shall  lead  me  to  believe  that  you  have  become 


THE  END  OF  THE  BATTLE 


THE   END   OF  THE   BATTLE 

A  SERGEANT,  a  corporal,  and  fourteen  men  of  the  Twelfth 
Regiment  of  the  Line  had  been  sent  out  to  occupy  a  house 
on  the  main  highway.  They  would  be  at  least  a  half  of  a 
mile  in  advance  of  any  other  picket  of  their  own  people. 
Sergeant  Morton  was  deeply  angry  at  being  sent  on  this 
duty.  He  said  that  he  was  over- worked.  There  were  at 
least  two  sergeants,  he  claimed  furiously,  whose  turn  it 
should  have  been  to  go  on  this  arduous  mission.  He  was 
treated  unfairly;  he  was  abused  by  his  superiors;  why  did 
any  damned  fool  ever  join  the  army?  As  for  him  he  would 
get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  possible;  he  was  sick  of  it;  the  life 
of  a  dog.  All  this  he  said  to  the  corporal,  who  listened 
attentively,  giving  grunts  of  respectful  assent.  On  the  way 
to  this  post  two  privates  took  occasion  to  drop  to  the  rear 
and  pilfer  in  the  orchard  of  a  deserted  plantation.  When  the 
sergeant  discovered  this  absence,  he  grew  black  with  a  rage 
which  was  an  accumulation  of  all  his  irritations.  "Run, 

you!"  he  howled.    "Bring  them  here!     I'll  show  them 

A  private  ran  swiftly  to  the  rear.  The  remainder  of  the 
squad  began  to  shout  nervously  at  the  two  delinquents, 
whose  figures  they  could  see  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  orchard, 
hurriedly  picking  fruit  from  the  ground  and  cramming  it 
within  their  shirts,  next  to  their  skins.  The  beseeching  cries 

87 


88  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

of  their  comrades  stirred  the  criminals  more  than  did  the 
barking  of  the  sergeant.  They  ran  to  rejoin  the  squad,  while 
holding  their  loaded  bosoms  and  with  their  mouths  open  with 
aggrieved  explanations. 

Jones  faced  the  sergeant  with  a  horrible  cancer  marked  in 
bumps  on  his  left  side.  The  disease  of  Patterson  showed 
quite  around  the  front  of  his  waist  in  many  protuberances. 
"A  nice  pair!"  said  the  sergeant,  with  sudden  frigidity. 
"You're  the  kind  of  soldiers  a  man  wants  to  choose  for  a 
dangerous  outpost  duty,  ain't  you?" 

The  two  privates  stood  at  attention,  still  looking  much  ag 
grieved.  "We  only —  "  began  Jones  huskily. 

"Oh,  you  'only!'"  cried  the  sergeant.  "Yes,  you  'only.' 
I  know  all  about  that.  But  if  you  think  you  are  going  to 
trifle  with  me " 

A  moment  later  the  squad  moved  on  towards  its  station. 
Behind  the  sergeant's  back  Jones  and  Patterson  were  slyly 
passing  apples  and  pears  to  their  friends  while  the  sergeant 
expounded  eloquently  to  the  corporal.  "You  see  what  kind 
of  men  are  in  the  army  now.  Why,  when  I  joined  the  regi 
ment  it  was  a  very  different  thing,  I  can  tell  you.  Then  a 
sergeant  had  some  authority,  and  if  a  man  disobeyed  orders, 
he  had  a  very  small  chance  of  escaping  something  extremely 
serious.  But  now!  Good  God!  If  I  report  these  men,  the 
captain  will  look  over  a  lot  of  beastly  orderly  sheets  and 
say— 'Haw,  eh,  well,  Sergeant  Morton,  these  men  seem  to 
have  very  good  records;  very  good  records,  indeed.  I  can't 
be  too  hard  on  them;  no,  not  too  hard.'  "  Continued  the 
sergeant:  "I  tell  you,  Flagler,  the  army  is  no  place  for  a 
decent  man." 


THE  END  OF  THE  BATTLE  89 

Flagler,  the  corporal,  answered  with  a  sincerity  of  appre 
ciation  which  with  him  had  become  a  science.  "I  think  you 
are  right,  sergeant,"  he  answered. 

Behind  them  the  privates  mumbled  discreetly.  "Damn 
this  sergeant  of  ours.  He  thinks  we  are  made  of  wood.  I 
don't  see  any  reason  for  all  this  strictness  when  we  are  on 
active  service.  It  isn't  like  being  at  home  in  barracks! 
There  is  no  great  harm  in  a  couple  of  men  dropping  out  to 
raid  an  orchard  of  the  enemy  when  all  the  world  knows  that 
we  haven't  had  a  decent  meal  in  twenty  days." 

The  reddened  face  of  Sergeant  Morton  suddenly  showed 
to  the  rear.  "A  little  more  marching  and  less  talking,"  he 
said. 

When  he  came  to  the  house  he  had  been  ordered  to  occupy 
the  sergeant  sniffed  with  disdain.  "These  people  must  have 
lived  like  cattle,"  he  said  angrily.  To  be  sure,  the  place  was 
not  alluring.  The  ground  floor  had  been  used  for  the  hous 
ing  of  cattle,  and  it  was  dark  and  terrible.  A  flight  of  steps 
led  to  the  lofty  first  floor,  which  was  denuded  but  respect 
able.  The  sergeant's  visage  lightened  when  he  saw  the  strong 
walls  of  stone  and  cement.  "Unless  they  turn  guns  on  us, 
they  will  never  get  us  out  of  here,"  he  said  cheerfully  to  the 
squad.  The  men,  anxious  to  keep  him  in  an  amiable  mood, 
all  hurriedly  grinned  and  seemed  very  appreciative  and 
pleased.  "I'll  make  this  into  a  fortress,"  he  announced.  He 
sent  Jones  and  Patterson,  the  two  orchard  thieves,  out  on 
sentry-duty.  He  worked  the  others,  then,  until  he  could 
think  of  no  more  things  to  tell  them  to  do.  Afterwards  he 
went  forth,  with  a  major-general's  serious  scowl,  and  ex 
amined  the  ground  in  front  of  his  position.  In  returning  he 


90  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

came  upon  a  sentry,  Jones,  munching  an  apple.     He  sternly 
commanded  him  to  throw  it  away. 

The  men  spread  their  blankets  on  the  floors  of  the  bare 
rooms,  and  putting  their  packs  under  their  heads  and  light 
ing  their  pipes,  they  lived  an  easy  peace.  Bees  hummed  in 
the  garden,  and  a  scent  of  flowers  came  through  the  open 
window.  A  great  fan-shaped  bit  of  sunshine  smote  the  face 
of  one  man,  and  he  indolently  cursed  as  he  moved  his  primi 
tive  bed  to  a  shadier  place. 

Another  private  explained  to  a  comrade:  "This  is  all  non 
sense  anyhow.  No  sense  in  occupying  this  post.  They " 

"But,  of  course,"  said  the  corporal,  "when  she  told  me 
herself  that  she  cared  more  for  me  than  she  did  for  him,  I 
wasn't  going  to  stand  any  of  his  talk—  The  corporal's 

listener  was  so  sleepy  that  he  could  only  grunt  his  sympa 
thy. 

There  was  a  sudden  little  spatter  of  shooting.  A  cry  from 
Jones  rang  out.  With  no  intermediate  scrambling,  the  ser 
geant  leaped  straight  to  his  feet.  "Now,"  he  cried,  "let  us 
see  what  you  are  made  of!  If,"  he  added  bitterly,  "you  are 
made  of  anything!" 

A  man  yelled:  "Good  God,  can't  you  see  you're  all  tangled 
up  in  my  cartridge  belt?" 

Another  man  yelled:  "Keep  off  my  legs!  Can't  you  walk 
on  the  floor?" 

To  the  windows  there  was  a  blind  rush  of  slumberous 
men,  who  brushed  hair  from  their  eyes  even  as  they  made 
ready  their  rifles.  Jones  and  Patterson  came  stumbling  up 
the  steps,  crying  dreadful  information.  Already  the  ene 
my's  bullets  were  spitting  and  singing  over  the  house. 


THE  END  OF  THE  BATTLE  91 

The  sergeant  suddenly  was  stiff  and  cold  with  a  sense  of 
the  importance  of  the  thing.  "Wait  until  you  see  one,"  he 
drawled  loudly  and  calmly,  "then  shoot." 

For  some  moments  the  enemy's  bullets  swung  swifter  than 
lightning  over  the  house  without  anybody  being  able  to  dis 
cover  a  target.  In  this  interval  a  man  was  shot  in  the 
throat.  He  gurgled,  and  then  lay  down  on  the  floor.  The 
blood  slowly  waved  down  the  brown  skin  of  his  neck  while 
he  looked  meekly  at  his  comrades. 

There  was  a  howl.  "There  they  are!  There  they  come!" 
The  rifles  crackled.  A  light  smoke  drifted  idly  through  the 
rooms.  There  was  a  strong  odor  as  if  from  burnt  paper  and 
the  powder  of  firecrackers.  The  men  were  silent.  Through 
the  windows  and  about  the  house  the  bullets  of  an  en 
tirely  invisible  enemy  moaned,  hummed,  spat,  burst,  and 
sang. 

The  men  began  to  curse.  "Why  can't  we  see  them?"  they 
muttered  through  their  teeth.  The  sergeant  was  still  frigid. 
He  answered  soothingly  as  if  he  were  directly  reprehensible 
for  this  behavior  of  the  enemy.  "Wait  a  moment.  You  will 
soon  be  able  to  see  them.  There!  Give  it  to  them!"  A 
little  skirt  of  black  figures  had  appeared  in  a  field.  It  was 
really  like  shooting  at  an  upright  needle  from  the  full  length 
of  a  ballroom.  But  the  men's  spirits  improved  as  soon  as 
the  enemy — this  mysterious  enemy — became  a  tangible  thing, 
and  far  off.  They  had  believed  the  foe  to  be  shooting  at 
them  from  the  adjacent  garden. 

"Now,"  said  the  sergeant  ambitiously,  "we  can  beat  them 
off  easily  if  you  men  are  good  enough." 

A  man  called  out  in  a  tone  of  quick,  great  interest.    "See 


92  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

that  fellow  on  horseback,  Bill?  Isn't  he  on  horseback?  I 
thought  he  was  on  horseback." 

There  was  a  fusilade  against  another  side  of  the  house. 
The  sergeant  dashed  into  the  room  which  commanded  the 
situation.  He  found  a  dead  soldier  on  the  floor.  He  rushed 
out  howling:  "When  was  Knowles  killed?  When  was 
Knowles  killed?  When  was  Knowles  killed?  Damn  it,  when 
was  Knowles  killed?"  It  was  absolutely  essential  to  find  out 
the  exact  moment  this  man  died.  A  blackened  private 
turned  upon  his  sergeant  and  demanded:  "How  in  hell  do  I 
know?"  Sergeant  Morton  had  a  sense  of  anger  so  brief 
that  in  the  next  second  he  cried:  "Patterson!"  He  had 
even  forgotten  his  vital  interest  in  the  time  of  Knowles' 
death. 

"Yes?"  said  Patterson,  his  face  set  with  some  deep-rooted 
quality  of  determination.  Still,  he  was  a  mere  farm  boy. 

"Go  in  to  Knowles'  window  and  shoot  at  those  people," 
^aii  the  sergeant  hoarsely.  Afterwards  he  coughed.  Some 
of  the  fumts  of  the  fight  had  made  way  to  his  lungs. 

Patterson  looked  at  the  door  into  this  other  room.  He 
looked  at  it  as  if  he  suspected  it  was  to  be  his  death-chamber. 
Then  he  entered  and  stood  across  the  body  of  Knowles  and 
fired  vigorously  into  a  group  of  plum  trees. 

"They  can't  take  this  house,"  declared  the  sergeant  in  a 
contemptuous  and  argumentative  tone.  He  was  apparently 
replying  to  somebody.  The  man  who  had  been  shot  in  the 
throat  looked  up  at  him.  Eight  men  were  firing  from  the 
windows.  The  sergeant  detected  in  a  corner  three  wounded 
men  talking  together  feebly.  "Don't  you  think  there  is 
anything  to  do?"  he  bawled.  'Go  and  get  Knowles'  cart- 


THE  END  OF  THE  BATTLE  93 

ridges  and  give  them  to  somebody  who  can  use  them!  Take 
Simpson's  too."  The  man  who  had  been  shot  in  the  throat 
looked  at  him.  Of  the  three  wounded  men  who  had  been 
talking,  one  said:  "My  leg  is  all  doubled  up  under  me,  ser 
geant."  He  spoke  apologetically. 

Meantime  the  sergeant  was  re-loading  his  rifle.  His  foot 
slipped  in  the  blood  of  the  man  who  had  been  shot  in  the 
throat,  and  the  military  boot  made  a  greasy  red  streak  on 
the  floor. 

"Why,  we  can  hold  this  place!"  shouted  the  sergeant  ju 
bilantly.  "Who  says  we  can't?" 

Corporal  Flagler  suddenly  spun  away  from  his  window 
and  fell  in  a  heap. 

"Sergeant,"  murmured  a  man  as  he  dropped  to  a  seat  on 
the  floor  out  of  danger,  "I  can't  stand  this.  I  swear  I  can't. 
I  think  we  should  run  away." 

Morton,  with  the  kindly  eyes  of  a  good  shepherd,  looked 
at  the  man.  "You  are  afraid,  Johnston,  you  are  afraid,"  he 
said  softly.  The  man  struggled  to  his  feet,  cast  upon  the 
sergeant  a  gaze  full  of  admiration,  reproach,  and  despair, 
and  returned  to  his  post.  A  moment  later  he  pitched  for 
ward,  and  thereafter  his  body  hung  out  of  the  window,  his 
arms  straight  and  the  fists  clenched.  Incidentally  this  corpse 
was  pierced  afterwards  by  chance  three  times  by  bullets  of 
the  enemy. 

The  sergeant  laid  his  rifle  against  the  stonework  of  the 
window-frame  and  shot  with  care  until  his  magazine  was 
empty.  Behind  him  a  man,  simply  grazed  on  the  elbow, 
was  wildly  sobbing  like  a  girl.  "Damn  it,  shut  up!"  said 
Morton,  without  turning  his  head.  Before  him  was  a  vista 


94  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

of  a  garden,  fields,  clumps  of  trees,  woods,  populated  at  the 
time  with  little  fleeting  figures. 

He  grew  furious.  "Why  didn't  he  send  me  orders?"  he 
cried  aloud.  The  emphasis  on  the  word  "he"  was  impressive. 
A  mile  back  on  the  road  a  galloper  of  the  Hussars  lay  dead 
beside  his  dead  horse. 

The  man  who  had  been  grazed  on  the  elbow  still  set  up 
his  bleat.  Morton's  fury  veered  to  this  soldier.  "Can't  you 
shut  up?  Can't  you  shut  up?  Can't  you  shut  up?  Fight! 
That's  the  thing  to  do.  Fight!" 

A  bullet  struck  Morton,  and  he  fell  upon  the  man  who 
had  been  shot  in  the  throat.  There  was  a  sickening  moment. 
Then  the  sergeant  rolled  off  to  a  position  upon  the  bloody 
floor.  He  turned  himself  with  a  last  effort  until  he  could 
look  at  the  wounded  who  were  able  to  look  at  him. 

"Kim  up,  the  Kickers,"  he  said  thickly.  His  arms  weak 
ened  and  he  dropped  on  his  face. 

After  an  interval  a  young  subaltern  of  the  enemy's  in 
fantry,  followed  by  his  eager  men,  burst  into  this  reeking 
interior.  But  just  over  the  threshold  he  halted  before  the 
scene  of  blood  and  death.  He  turned  with  a  shrug  to  his 
sergeant.  "God,  I  should  have  estimated  them  at  least  one 
hundred  strong." 


THE  UPTURNED  FACE 


THE   UPTURNED    FACE 

"WHAT  will  we  do  now?"  said  the  adjutant,  troubled  and 
excited. 

"Bury  him,"  said  Timothy  Lean. 

The  two  officers  looked  down  close  to  their  toes  where  lay 
the  body  of  their  comrade.  The  face  was  chalk-blue;  gleam 
ing  eyes  stared  at  the  sky.  Over  the  two  upright  figures  was 
a  windy  sound  of  bullets,  and  on  the  top  of  the  hill  Lean's 
prostrate  company  of  Spitzbergen  infantry  was  firing  meas 
ured  volleys. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better—  "  began  the  ad 
jutant.  "We  might  leave  him  until  to-morrow." 

"Xo,"  said  Lean.  "I  can't  hold  that  post  an  hour  longer. 
I've  got  to  fall  back,  and  we've  got  to  bury  old  Bill." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  adjutant,  at  once.  "Your  men  got 
intrenching  tools?" 

Lean  shouted  back  to  his  little  line,  and  two  men  came 
slowly,  one  with  a  pick,  one  with  a  shovel.  They  started  in 
the  direction  of  the  Rostina  sharp-shooters.  Bullets  cracked 
near  their  ears.  "Dig  here,"  said  Lean  gruffly.  The  men, 
thus  caused  to  lower  their  glances  to  the  turf,  became  hur 
ried  and  frightened  merely  because  they  could  not  look  to 
see  whence  the  bullets  came.  The  dull  beat  of  the  pick 

97 


98  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

striking  the  earth  sounded  amid  the  swift  snap  of  close  bul 
lets.  Presently  the  other  private  began  to  shovel. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  adjutant,  slowly,  "we'd  better  search 
his  clothes  for — things." 

Lean  nodded.  Together  in  curious  abstraction  they  looked 
at  the  body.  Then  Lean  stirred  his  shoulders  suddenly,  arous 
ing  himself. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we'd  better  see  what  he's  got."  He 
dropped  to  his  knees,  and  his  hands  approached  the  body  of 
the  dead  officer.  But  his  hands  wavered  over  the  buttons 
of  the  tunic.  The  first  button  was  brick-red  with  drying 
blood,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  dare  touch  it. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  adjutant,  hoarsely. 

Lean  stretched  his  wooden  hand,  and  his  finge/s  fumbled 
the  blood-stained  buttons.  At  last  he  rose  with  ghastly  face. 
He  had  gathered  a  watch,  a  whistle,  a  pipe,  a  tobacco  pouch, 
a  handkerchief,  a  little  case  of  cards  and  papers.  He  looked 
at  the  adjutant.  There  was  a  silence.  The  adjutant  was 
feeling  that  he  had  been  a  coward  to  make  Lean  do  all  the 
grisly  business. 

"Well,"  said  Lean,  "that's  all,  I  think.  You  have  his 
sword  and  revolver?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  adjutant,  his  face  working,  and  then  he 
burst  out  in  a  sudden  strange  fury  at  the  two  privates.  "Why 
don't  you  hurry  up  with  that  grave?  What  are  you  doing, 
anyhow?  Hurry,  do  you  hear?  I  never  saw  such  stu 
pid- 
Even  as  he  cried  out  in  his  passion  the  two  men  were 
laboring  for  their  lives.  Ever  overhead  the  bullets  were 
spitting. 


THE  UPTURNED  FACE  99 

The  grave  was  finished.  It  was  not  a  masterpiece — a  poor 
little  shallow  thing.  Lean  and  the  adjutant  again  looked  at 
each  other  in  a  curious  silent  communication. 

Suddenly  the  adjutant  croaked  out  a  weird  laugh.  It  was  a 
terrible  laugh,  which  had  its  origin  in  that  part  of  the  mind 
which  is  first  moved  by  the  singing  of  the  nerves.  "Well," 
he  said,  humorously  to  Lean,  "I  suppose  we  had  best  tumble 
him  in." 

"Yes,"  said  Lean.  The  two  privates  stood  waiting,  bent 
over  their  implements.  "I  suppose,"  said  Lean,  "it  would 
be  better  if  we  laid  him  in  ourselves." 

"Yes,"  said  the  adjutant.  Then  apparently  remembering 
that  he  had  made  Lean  search  the  body,  he  stooped  with 
great  fortitude  and  took  hold  of  the  dead  officer's  clothing. 
Lean  joined  him.  Both  were  particular  that  their  fingers 
should  not  feel  the  corpse.  They  tugged  away;  the  corpse 
lifted,  heaved,  toppled,  flopped  into  the  grave,  and  the  two 
officers,  straightening,  looked  again  at  each  other — they 
were  always  looking  at  each  other.  They  sighed  with  re 
lief. 

The  adjutant  said,  "I  suppose  we  should — we  should  say 
something.  Do  you  know  the  service,  Tim?" 

"They  don't  read  the  service  until  the  grave  is  filled  in," 
said  Lean,  pressing  his  lips  to  an  academic  expression. 

"Don't  they?"  said  the  adjutant,  shocked  that  he  had 
made  the  mistake. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  cried,  suddenly,  "let  us — let  us  say  some 
thing — while  he  can  hear  us." 

"All  right,"  said  Lean.    "Do  you  know  the  service?" 

"I  can't  remember  a  line  of  it,"  said  the  adjutant. 


ioo  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Lean  was  extremely  dubious.  "I  can  repeat  two  lines, 
but- 

"Well,  do  it,"  said  the  adjutant.  "Go  as  far  as  you  can. 
That's  better  than  nothing.  And  the  beasts  have  got  our 
range  exactly." 

Lean  looked  at  his  two  men.  "Attention,"  he  barked. 
The  privates  came  to  attention  with  a  click,  looking  much 
aggrieved.  The  adjutant  lowered  his  helmet  to  his  knee. 
Lean,  bareheaded,  he  stood  over  the  grave.  The  Rostina 
sharpshooters  fired  briskly. 

"Oh,  Father,  our  friend  has  sunk  in  the  deep  waters  of 
death,  but  his  spirit  has  leaped  toward  Thee  as  the  bubble 
arises  from  the  lips  of  the  drowning.  Perceive,  we  beseech, 
0  Father,  the  little  flying  bubble,  and— 

Lean,  although  husky  and  ashamed,  had  suffered  no  hesi 
tation  up  to  this  point,  but  he  stopped  with  a  hopeless  feeling 
and  looked  at  the  corpse. 

The  adjutant  moved  uneasily.  "And  from  Thy  superb 
heights—  "  he  began,  and  then  he  too  came  to  an  end. 

"And  from  Thy  superb  heights,"  said  Lean. 

The  adjutant  suddenly  remembered  a  phrase  in  the  back 
part  of  the  Spitzbergen  burial  service,  and  he  exploited  it 
with  the  triumphant  manner  of  a  man  who  has  recalled 
everything,  and  can  go  on. 

"Oh,  God,  have  mercy " 

"Oh,  God,  have  mercy—     "  said  Lean. 

"Mercy,"  repeated  the  adjutant,  in  quick  failure. 

"Mercy,"  said  Lean.  And  then  he  was  moved  by  some 
violence  of  feeling,  for  he  turned  suddenly  upon  his  two 
men  and  tigerishly.  said,  "Throw  the  dirt  in." 


THE  UPTURNED  FACE  101 

The  fire  of  the  Rostina  sharpshooters  was  accurate  and 

continuous. 

******* 

One  of  the  aggrieved  privates  came  forward  with  his  shovel. 
He  lifted  his  first  shovel-load  of  earth,  and  for  a  moment  of 
inexplicable  hesitation  it  was  held  poised  above  this  corpse, 
which  from  its  chalk-blue  face  looked  keenly  out  from  the 
grave.  Then  the  soldier  emptied  his  shovel  on — on  the  feet. 

Timothy  Lean  felt  as  if  tons  had  been  swiftly  lifted  from 
off  his  forehead.  He  had  felt  that  perhaps  the  private  might 
empty  the  shovel  on — on  the  face.  It  had  been  emptied  on 
the  feet.  There  was  a  great  point  gained  there — ha,  ha!  — 
the  first  shovelful  had  been  emptied  on  the  feet.  How  satis 
factory  ! 

The  adjutant  began  to  babble.  "Well,  of  course — a  man 
we've  messed  with  all  these  years — impossible — you  can't, 
you  know,  leave  your  intimate  friends  rotting  on  the  field. 
Go  on,  for  God's  sake,  and  shovel,  you!" 

The  man  with  the  shovel  suddenly  ducked,  grabbed  his 
left  arm  with  his  right  hand,  and  looked  at  his  officer  for 
orders.  Lean  picked  the  shovel  from  the  ground.  "Go  to 
the  rear,"  he  said  to  the  wounded  man.  He  also  addressed 
the  other  private.  "You  get  under  cover,  too;  I'll  finish 
this  business." 

The  wounded  man  scrambled  hard  still  for  the  top  of  the 
ridge  without  devoting  any  glances  to  the  direction  whence 
the  bullets  came,  and  the  other  man  followed  at  an  equal 
pace;  but  he  was  different,  in  that  he  looked  back  anxiously 
three  times. 

This  is  merely  the  way — often — of  the  hit  and  unhit. 


102  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Timothy  Lean  filled  the  shovel,  hesitated,  and  then  in  a 
movement  which  was  like  a  gesture  of  abhorrence  he  flung 
the  dirt  into  the  grave,  and  as  it  landed  it  made  a  sound- 
plop!  Lean  suddenly  stopped  and  mopped  his  brow — a  tired 
laborer. 

"Perhaps  we  have  been  wrong,"  said  the  adjutant.  His 
glance  wavered  stupidly.  "It  might  have  been  better  if  we 
hadn't  buried  him  just  at  this  time.  Of  course,  if  we  ad 
vance  to-morrow  the  body  would  have  been— 

"Damn  you,"  said  Lean,  "shut  your  mouth!"  He  was  not 
the  senior  officer. 

He  again  filled  the  shovel  and  flung  the  earth.  Always 
the  earth  made  that  sound — plop!  For  a  space  Lean  worked 
frantically,  like  a  man  digging  himself  out  of  danger. 

Soon  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  chalk-blue  face. 
Lean  filled  the  shovel.  "Good  God,"  he  cried  to  the  adju 
tant.  "Why  didn't  you  turn  him  somehow  when  you  put 
him  in?  This—  Then  Lean  began  to  stutter. 

The  adjutant  understood.  He  was  pale  to  the  lips.  "Go 
on,  man,"  he  cried,  beseechingly,  almost  in  a  shout.  Lean 
swung  back  the  shovel.  It  went  forward  in  a  pendulum 
curve.  When  the  earth  landed  it  made  a  sound — plop! 


AN  EPISODE  OF  WAR 


AN  EPISODE  OF  WAR 

THE  lieutenant's  rubber  blanket  lay  on  the  ground,  and 
upon  it  he  had  poured  the  company's  supply  of  coffee.  Cor 
porals  and  other  representatives  of  the  grimy  and  hot-throat 
ed  men  who  lined  the  breastwork  had  come  for  each  squad's 
portion. 

The  lieutenant  was  frowning  and  serious  at  this  task  of 
division.  His  lips  pursed  as  he  drew  with  his  sword  various 
crevices  in  the  heap  until  brown  squares  of  coffee,  astound- 
ingly  equal  in  size,  appeared  on  the  blanket.  He  was  on 
the  verge  of  a  great  triumph  in  mathematics,  and  the  cor 
porals  were  thronging  forward,  each  to  reap  a  little  square, 
when  suddenly  the  lieutenant  cried  out  and  looked  quickly 
at  a  man  near  him  as  if  he  suspected  it  was  a  case  of  per 
sonal  assault.  The  others  cried  out  also  when  they  saw  blood 
upon  the  lieutenant's  sleeve. 

He  had  winced  like  a  man  stung,  swayed  dangerously,  and 
then  straightened.  The  sound  of  his  hoarse  breathing  was 
plainly  audible.  He  looked  sadly,  mystically,  over  the  breast 
work  at  the  green  face  of  a  wood,  where  now  were  many 
little  puffs  of  white  smoke.  During  this  moment  the  men 
about  him  gazed  statue-like  and  silent,  astonished  and  awed 
by  this  catastrophe  which  happened  when  catastrophes  were 
not  expected — when  they  had  leisure  to  observe  it. 

As  the  lieutenant  stared  at  the  wood,  they  too  swung  their 

105 


io6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

heads,  so  that  for  another  instant  all  hands,  still  silent,  con 
templated  the  distant  forest  as  if  their  minds  were  fixed  upon 
the  mystery  of  a  bullet's  journey. 

The  officer  had,  of  course,  been  compelled  to  take  his 
sword  into  his  left  hand.  He  did  not  hold  it  by  the  hilt. 
He  gripped  it  at  the  middle  of  the  blade,  awkwardly.  Turn 
ing  his  eyes  from  the  hostile  wood,  he  looked  at  the  sword 
as  he  held  it  there,  and  seemed  puzzled  as  to  what  to  do 
with  it,  where  to  put  it.  In  short,  this  weapon  had  of  a 
sudden  become  a  strange  thing  to  him.  He  looked  at  it  in 
a  kind  of  stupefaction,  as  if  he  had  been  endowed  with  a 
trident,  a  sceptre,  or  a  spade. 

Finally  he  tried  to  sheath  it.  To  sheath  a  sword  held  by 
the  left  hand,  at  the  middle  of  the  blade,  in  a  scabbard  hung 
at  the  left  hip,  is  a  feat  worthy  of  a  sawdust  ring.  This 
wounded  officer  engaged  in  a  desperate  struggle  with  the 
sword  and  the  wobbling  scabbard,  and  during  the  time  of  it 
he  breathed  like  a  wrestler. 

But  at  this  instant  the  men,  the  spectators,  awoke  from 
their  stone-like  poses  and  crowded  forward  sympathetically. 
The  orderly-sergeant  took  the  sword  and  tenderly  placed  it 
in  the  scabbard.  At  the  time,  he  leaned  nervously  back 
ward,  and  did  not  allow  even  his  finger  to  brush  the  body  of 
the  lieutenant.  A  wound  gives  strange  dignity  to  him  who 
bears  it.  Well  men  shy  from  this  new  and  terrible  majesty. 
It  is  as  if  the  wounded  man's  hand  is  upon  the  curtain  which 
hangs  before  the  revelations  of  all  existence — the  meaning  of 
ants,  potentates,  wars,  cities,  sunshine,  snow,  a  feather 
dropped  from  a  bird's  wing:  and  the  power  of  it  sheds  radi 
ance  upon  a  bloody  form,  and  makes  the  other  men  under- 


AN  EPISODE  OF  WAR  107 

stand  sometimes  that  they  are  little.  His  comrades  look  at 
him  with  large  eyes  thoughtfully.  Moreover,  they  fear 
vaguely  that  the  weight  of  a  finger  upon  him  might  send  him 
headlong,  precipitate  the  tragedy,  hurl  him  at  once  into  the 
dim,  grey  unknown.  And  so  the  orderly-sergeant,  while 
sheathing  the  sword,  leaned  nervously  backward. 

There  were  others  who  proffered  assistance.  One  timidly 
presented  his  shoulder  and  asked  the  lieutenant  if  he  cared 
to  lean  upon  it,  but  the  latter  waved  him  away  mournfully. 
He  were  the  look  of  one  who  knows  he  is  the  victim  of  a 
terrible  disease  and  understands  his  helplessness.  He  again 
stared  over  the  breastwork  at  the  forest,  and  then  turning 
went  slowly  rearward.  He  held  his  right  wrist  tenderly  in 
his  left  hand  as  if  the  wounded  arm  was  made  of  very  brittle 
glass. 

And  the  men  in  silence  stared  at  the  wood,  then  at  the 
departing  lieutenant — then  at  the  wood,  then  at  the  lieu 
tenant. 

As  the  wounded  officer  passed  from  the  line  of  battle,  he 
was  enabled  to  see  many  things  which  as  a  participant  in  the 
fight  were  unknown  to  him.  He  saw  a  general  on  a  black 
horse  gazing  over  the  lines  of  blue  infantry  at  the  green 
woods  which  veiled  his  problems.  An  aide  galloped  furi 
ously,  dragged  his  horse  suddenly  to  a  halt,  saluted,  and  pre 
sented  a  paper.  It  was,  for  a  wonder,  precisely  like  an  his 
torical  painting. 

To  the  rear  of  the  general  and  his  staff  a  group,  composed 
of  a  bugler,  two  or  three  orderlies,  and  the  bearer  of  the 
corps  standard,  all  upon  maniacal  horses,  were  working  like 
slaves  to  hold  their  ground,  preserve  their  respectful  inter- 


io8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

val,  while  the  shells  boomed  in  the  air  about  them,  and 
caused  their  chargers  to  make  furious  quivering  leaps. 

A  battery,  a  tumultuous  and  shining  mass,  was  swirling 
toward  the  right.  The  wild  thud  of  hoofs,  the  cries  of  the 
riders  shouting  blame  and  praise,  menace  and  encourage 
ment,  and,  last  the  roar  of  the  wheels,  the  slant  of  the  glis 
tening  guns,  brought  the  lieutenant  to  an  intent  pause.  The 
battery  swept  in  curves  that  stirred  the  heart;  it  made  halts 
as  dramatic  as  the  crash  of  a  wave  on  the  rocks,  and  when 
it  fled  onward,  this  aggregation  of  wheels,  levers,  motors, 
had  a  beautiful  unity,  as  if  it  were  a  missile.  The  sound  of 
it  was  a  war-chorus  that  reached  into  the  depths  of  man's 
emotion. 

The  lieutenant,  still  holding  his  arm  as  if  it  were  of  glass, 
stood  watching  this  battery  until  all  detail  of  it  was  lost, 
save  the  figures  of  the  riders,  which  rose  and  fell  and  waved 
lashes  over  the  black  mass. 

Later,  he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  battle  where  the 
Shooting  sometimes  crackled  like  bush-fires,  sometimes  sput 
tered  with  exasperating  irregularity,  and  sometimes  rever 
berated  like  the  thunder.  He  saw  the  smoke  rolling  upward 
and  saw  crowds  of  men  who  ran  and  cheered,  or  stood  and 
blazed  away  at  the  inscrutable  distance. 

He  came  upon  some  stragglers,  and  they  told  him  how  to 
find  the  field  hospital.  They  described  its  exact  location, 
tn  fact,  these  men,  no  longer  having  part  in  the  battle,  knew 
tnore  of  it  than  others.  They  told  the  performance  of  every 
corps,  every  division,  the  opinion  of  every  general.  The 
lieutenant,  carrying  his  wounded  arm  rearward,  looked  upon 
them  with  wonder. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  WAR  109 

At  the  roadside  a  brigade  was  making  coffee  and  buzzing 
with  talk  like  a  girls'  boarding-school.  Several  officers  came 
out  to  him  and  inquired  concerning  things  of  which  he  knew 
nothing.  One,  seeing  his  arm,  began  to  scold.  "Why,  man. 
that's  no  way  to  do.  You  want  to  fix  that  thing."  He 
appropriated  the  lieutenant  and  the  lieutenant's  wound.  He 
cut  the  sleeve  and  laid  bare  the  arm,  every  nerve  of  which 
softly  fluttered  under  his  touch.  He  bound  his  handker 
chief  over  the  wound,  scolding  away  in  the  meantime.  His 
tone  allowed  one  to  think  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  being 
wounded  every  day.  The  lieutenant  hung  his  head,  feeling, 
in  this  presence,  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  be  correctly 
wounded. 

The  low  white  tents  of  the  hospital  were  grouped  around 
an  old  school-house.  There  was  here  a  singular  commotion. 
In  the  foreground  two  ambulances  interlocked  wheels  in  the 
deep  mud.  The  drivers  were  tossing  the  blame  of  it  back 
and  forth,  gesticulating  and  berating,  while  from  the  ambu 
lances,  both  crammed  with  wounded,  there  came  an  occa 
sional  groan.  An  interminable  crowd  of  bandaged  men  were 
coming  and  going.  Great  numbers  sat  under  the  trees  nurs 
ing  heads  or  arms  or  legs.  There  was  a  dispute  of  some  kind 
raging  on  the  steps  of  the  school-house.  Sitting  with  his 
back  against  a  tree  a  man  with  a  face  as  grey  as  a  new  army 
blanket  was  serenely  smoking  a  corn-cob  pipe.  The  lieu 
tenant  wished  to  rush  forward  and  inform  him  that  he  was 
dying. 

A  busy  surgeon  was  passing  near  the  lieutenant.  "Good- 
morning,"  he  said,  with  a  friendly  smile.  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  the  lieutenant's  arm  and  his  face  at  once  changed. 


no  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Well,  let's  have  a  look  at  it."  He  seemed  possessed  sud 
denly  of  a  great  contempt  for  the  lieutenant.  This  wound 
evidently  placed  the  latter  on  a  very  low  social  plane.  The 
doctor  cried  out  impatiently,  "What  mutton-head  had  tied 
it  up  that  way  anyhow?"  The  lieutenant  answered,  "Oh,  a 
man." 

When  the  wound  was  disclosed  the  doctor  fingered  it  dis 
dainfully,  "Humph,"  he  said.  "You  come  along  with  me 
and  I'll  'tend  to  you."  His  voice  contained  the  same  scorn 
as  if  he  were  saying,  "You  will  have  to  go  to  jail." 

The  lieutenant  had  been  very  meek,  but  now  his  face 
flushed,  and  he  looked  into  the  doctor's  eyes.  "I  guess  I 
won't  have  it  amputated,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense,  man!  Nonsense!  Nonsense!"  cried  the  doc 
tor.  "Come  along,  now.  I  won't  amputate  it.  Come 
along.  Don't  be  a  baby." 

"Let  go  of  me,"  said  the  lieutenant,  holding  back  wrath- 
fully,  his  glance  fixed  upon  the  door  of  the  old  school-house, 
as  sinister  to  him  as  the  portals  of  death. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  how  the  lieutenant  lost  his  arm. 
When  he  reached  home,  his  sisters,  his  mother,  his  wife, 
sobbed  for  a  long  time  at  the  sight  of  the  flat  sleeve.  "Oh, 
well,"  he  said,  standing  shamefaced  amid  these  tears,  "I  don't 
suppose  it  matters  so  much  as  all  that." 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY 


AN   EXPERIMENT  IN   MISERY 

IT  WAS  late  at  night,  and  a  fine  rain  was  swirling  softly 
down,  causing  the  pavements  to  glisten  with  hue  of  steel  and 
blue  and  yellow  in  the  rays  of  the  innumerable  lights.  A 
youth  was  trudging  slowly,  without  enthusiasm,  with  his 
hands  buried  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  toward  the  down 
town  places  where  beds  can  be  hired  for  coppers.  He  was 
clothed  in  an  aged  and  tattered  suit,  and  his  derby  was  a, 
man-el  of  dust-covered  crown  and  torn  rim.  He  was  going 
forth  to  eat  as  the  wanderer  may  eat,  and  sleep  as  the  home 
less  sleep.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  City  Hall  Park  ho 
•was  so  completely  plastered  with  yells  of  "bum"  and  "hobo," 
and  with  various  unholy  epithets  that  small  boys  had  applied 
to  him  at  intervals,  that  he  was  in  a  state  of  the  most  pro 
found  dejection.  The  sifting  rain  saturated  the  old  velvet 
collar  of  his  overcoat,  and  as  the  wet  cloth  pressed  against 
his  neck,  he  felt  that  there  no  longer  could  be  pleasure  in 
life.  He  looked  about  him  searching  for  an  outcast  of  high 
est  degree  that  they  too  might  share  miseries,  but  the  lights 
threw  a  quivering  glare  over  rows  and  circles  of  deserted 
benches  that  glistened  damply,  showing  patches  of  wet  sod 
behind  them.  It  seemed  that  their  usual  freights  had  fled 
on  this  night  to  better  things.  There  were  only  squads  of 
well-dressed  Brooklyn  people  who  swarmed  towards  the 
bridge. 

The  young  man  loitered  about  for  a  time  and  then  went 
shuffling  off  down   Park  Row.     In   the  sudden   descent  in 

113 


MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

5tyle  of  the  dress  of  the  crowd  he  felt  relief,  and  as  if  he 
were  at  last  in  his  own  country.  He  began  to  see  tatters 
tfiat  matched  his  tatters.  In  Chatham  Square  there  were 
aimless  men  strewn  in  front  of  saloons  and  lodging-houses, 
standing  sadly,  patiently,  reminding  one  vaguely  of  the  atti 
tudes  of  chickens  in  a  storm.  He  aligned  himself  with  these 
men,  and  turned  slowly  to  occupy  himself  with  the  flowing 
life  of  the  great  street. 

Through  the  mists  of  the  cold  and  storming  night,  the 
cable  cars  went  in  silent  procession,  great  affairs  shining  with 
i-ed  and  brass,  moving  with  formidable  power,  calm  and  irre 
sistible,  dangerful  and  gloomy,  breaking  silence  only  by  the 
loud  fierce  cry  of  the  gong.  Two  rivers  of  people  swarmed 
nlong  the  sidewalks,  spattered  with  black  mud,  which  made 
each  shoe  leave  a  scarlike  impression.  Overhead  elevated 
trains  with  a  shrill  grinding  of  the  wheels  stopped  at  the 
station,  which  upon  its  leglike  pillars  seemed  to  resemble 
some  monstrous  kind  of  crab  squatting  over  the  street.  The 
quick  fat  puffings  of  the  engines  could  be  heard.  Down  an 
alley  there  were  somber  curtains  of  purple  and  black,  on 
which  street  lamps  dully  glittered  like  embroidered  flowers. 

A  saloon  stood  with  a  voracious  air  on  a  corner.  A  sign 
leaning  against  the  front  of  the  door-post  announced  "Free 
hot  soup  to-night!"  The  swing  doors,  snapping  to  and  fro 
like  ravenous  lips,  made  gratified  smacks  as  the  saloon  gorged 
itself  with  plump  men,  eating  with  astounding  and  endless 
appetite,  smiling  in  some  indescribable  manner  as  the  men 
came  from  all  directions  like  sacrifices  to  a  heathenish  super 
stition. 

Caught  by  the  delectable  sign  the  young  man  allowed  him- 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY  115 

self  to  be  swallowed.  A  bartender  placed  a  schooner  of  dark 
and  portentous  beer  on  the  bar.  Its  monumental  form  up- 
reared  until  the  froth  a-top  was  above  the  crown  of  the 
young  man's  brown  derby. 

"Soup  over  there,  gents,"  said  the  bartender  affably.  A 
little  yellow  man  in  rags  and  the  youth  grasped  their  schoon 
ers  and  went  with  speed  toward  a  lunch  counter,  where  a 
man  with  oily  but  imposing  whiskers  ladled  genially  from  a 
kettle  until  he  had  furnished  his  two  mendicants  with  a  soup 
that  wras  steaming  hot,  and  in  which  there  were  little  float 
ing  suggestions  of  chicken.  The  young  man,  sipping  hh' 
broth,  felt  the  cordiality  expressed  by  the  warmth  of  the 
mixture,  and  he  beamed  at  the  man  with  oily  but  imposing 
whiskers,  who  was  presiding  like  a  priest  behind  an  altar. 
"Have  some  more,  gents?"  he  inquired  of  the  two  sorry 
figures  before  him.  The  little  yellow  man  accepted  with  a 
swift  gesture,  but  the  youth  shook  his  head  and  went  out, 
following  a  man  whose  wrondrous  seediness  promised  that  he 
would  have  a  knowledge  of  cheap  lodging-houses. 

On  the  sidewalk  he  accosted  the  seedy  man.  "Say,  do 
you  know  a  cheap  place  to  sleep?" 

The  other  hesitated  for  a  time,  gazing  sideways.  Finally 
he  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  street,  "I  sleep  up  there," 
he  said,  "when  I've  got  the  price." 

"How  much?" 

"Ten  cents." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  dolefully.  "That's  too  rich 
for  me." 

At  that  moment  there  approached  the  two  a  reeling  man 
in  strange  garments.  His  head  was  a  fuddle  of  bushy  hair 


n6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

and  whiskers,  from  which  his  eyes  peered  with  a  guilty  slant. 
In  a  close  scrutiny  it  was  possible  to  distinguish  the  cruel 
lines  of  a  mouth  which  looked  as  if  its  lips  had  just  closed 
with  satisfaction  over  some  tender  and  piteous  morsel.  He 
appeared  like  an  assassin  steeped  in  crimes  performed  awk 
wardly. 

But  at  this  time  his  voice  was  tuned  to  the  coaxing  key 
of  an  affectionate  puppy.  He  looked  at  the  men  with  wheed 
ling  eyes,  and  began  to  sing  a  little  melody  for  charity. 

"Say,  gents,  can't  yeh  give  a  poor  feller  a  couple  of  cents 
t'  git  a  bed?  I  got  five,  and  I  gits  anudder  two  I  gits  me  a 
bed.  Now,  on  th'  square,  gents,  can't  yeh  jest  gimme  two 
cents  t'  git  a  bed?  Now,  yeh  know  how  a  respecter'ble  gen- 
tlem'n  feels  when  he's  down  on  his  luck,  an'  I— 

The  seedy  man,  staring  with  imperturbable  countenance 
at  a  train  which  clattered  overhead,  interrupted  in  an  ex 
pressionless  voice — "Ah,  go  t'  h !" 

But  the  youth  spoke  to  the  prayerful  assassin  in  tones  of 
astonishment  and  inquiry.  "Say,  you  must  be  cra.zy!  Why 
don't  yeh  strike  somebody  that  looks  as  if  they  had  money?" 

The  assassin,  tottering  about  on  his  uncertain  legs,  and 
at  intervals  brushing  imaginary  obstacles  from  before  his 
nose,  entered  into  a  long  explanation  of  the  psychology  of 
the  situation.  It  was  so  profound  that  it  was  unintelligible. 

When  he  had  exhausted  the  subject,  the  youig  man  said 
to  him: 

"Let's  see  th'  five  cents." 

The  assassin  wore  an  expression  of  drunken  woe  at  this 
sentence,  filled  with  suspicion  of  him.  With  a  deeply  pained 
air  he  began  to  fumble  in  his  clothing,  his  red  hands  trem- 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY  117 

bling.  Presently  he  announced  in  a  voice  of  bitter  grief,  a? 
if  he  had  been  betrayed— "There's  on'y  four." 

"Four,"  said  the  young  man  thoughtfully.  "Well,  look 
here,  I'm  a  stranger  here,  an'  if  ye'll  steer  me  to  your  cheap 
joint  I'll  find  the  other  three." 

The  assassin's  countenance  became  instantly  radiant  with 
joy.  His  whiskers  quivered  with  the  wealth  of  his  alleged 
emotions.  He  seized  the  young  man's  hand  in  a  transport 
of  delight  and  friendliness. 

"B'  Gawd,"  he  cried,  "if  ye'll  do  that,  b'  Gawd,  I'd  say 
yeh  was  a  damned  good  fellow,  I  would,  an'  I'd  remember 
yeh  all  m'  life,  I  would,  b'  Gawd,  an'  if  I  ever  got  a  chance 
I'd  return  the  compliment" — he  spoke  with  drunken  dignity 
— "b'  Gawd,  I'd  treat  yeh  white,  I  would,  an'  I'd  allus  re 
member  yeh." 

The  young  man  drew  back,  looking  at  the  assassin  coldly. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said.  "You  show  me  th'  joint— 
that's  all  you've  got  t'  do." 

The  assassin,  gesticulating  gratitude,  led  the  young  man 
along  a  dark  street.  Finally  he  stopped  before  a  little  dusty 
door.  He  raised  his  hand  impressively.  "Look-a-here,"  he 
said,  and  there  was  a  thrill  of  deep  and  ancient  wisdom  upon 
his  face,  "I've  brought  yeh  here,  an'  that's  my  part,  ain't  it? 
If  th'  place  don't  suit  yeh,  yeh  needn't  git  mad  at  me,  need 
yeh?  There  won't  be  no  bad  feelin',  will  there?" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man. 

The  assassin  waved  his  arm  tragically,  and  led  the  march 
up  the  steep  stairway.  On  the  way  the  young  man  fur 
nished  the  assassin  with  three  pennies.  At  the  top  a  man 
with  benevolent  spectacles  looked  at  them  through  a  hole  in 


n8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

a  board.  He  collected  their  money,  wrote  some  names  on 
a  register,  and  speedily  was  leading  the  two  men  along  a 
gloom-shrouded  corridor. 

Shortly  after  the  beginning  of  this  journey  the  young  man 
felt  his  liver  turn  white,  for  from  the  dark  and  secret  places 
of  the  building  there  suddenly  came  to  his  nostrils  strange 
and  unspeakable  odors,  that  assailed  him  like  malignant  dis 
eases  with  wings.  They  seemed  to  be  from  human  bodies 
dosely  packed  in  dens;  the  exhalations  from  a  hundred 
pairs  of  reeking  lips;  the  fumes  from  a  thousand  bygone 
debauches;  the  expression  of  a  thousand  present  mis 
eries. 

A  man,  naked  save  for  a  little  snuff-colored  undershirt,  was 
parading  sleepily  along  the  corridor.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
and,  giving  vent  to  a  prodigious  yawn,  demanded  to  be  told 
the  time. 

"Half-past  one." 

The  man  yawned  again.  He  opened  a  door,  and  for  a 
moment  his  form  was  outlined  against  a  black,  opaque  in 
terior.  To  this  door  came  the  three  men,  and  as  it  was 
again  opened  the  unholy  odors  rushed  out  like  fiends,  so 
that  the  young  man  was  obliged  to  struggle  as  against  an 
overpowering  wind. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  youth's  eyes  were  good  in 
the  intense  gloom  within,  but  the  man  with  benevolent  spec 
tacles  led  him  skilfully,  pausing  but  a  moment  to  deposit 
the  limp  assassin  upon  a  cot.  He  took  the  youth  to  a  cot 
that  lay  tranquilly  by  the  window,  and  showing  him  a  tall 
locker  for  clothes  that  stood  near  the  head  with  the  ominous 
air  of  a  tombstone,  left  him. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY 

The  youth  sat  on  his  cot  and  peered  about  him.  There 
was  a  gas-jet  in  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  that  burned  a 
small  flickering  orange-hued  flame.  It  caused  vast  masses 
of  tumbled  shadows  in  all  parts  of  the  place,  save  where, 
immediately  about  it,  there  was  a  little  grey  haze.  As  the 
young  man's  eyes  became  used  to  the  darkness,  he  could 
see  upon  the  cots  that  thickly  littered  the  floor  the  forms 
of  men  sprawled  out,  lying  in  deathlike  silence,  or  heaving  and 
snoring  with  tremendous  effort,  like  stabbed  fish. 

The  youth  locked  his  derby  and  his  shoes  in  the  mummy 
case  near  him,  and  then  lay  down  with  an  old  and  familiar 
coat  around  his  shoulders.  A  blanket  he  handed  gingerly, 
drawing  it  over  part  of  the  coat.  The  cot  was  covered  with 
leather,  and  as  cold  as  melting  snow.  The  youth  was  obliged 
to  shiver  for  some  time  on  this  affair,  which  was  like  a  slab. 
Presently,  however,  his  chill  gave  him  peace,  and  during 
this  period  of  leisure  from  it  he  turned  his  head  to  stare  at 
his  friend  the  assassin,  whom  he  could  dimly  discern  where 
he  lay  sprawled  on  a  cot  in  the  abandon  of  a  man  filled  with 
drink.  He  was  snoring  with  incredible  vigor.  His  wet  hair 
and  beard  dimly  glistened,  and  his  inflamed  nose  shone  with 
subdued  lustre  like  a  red  light  in  a  fog. 

Within  reach  of  the  youth's  hand  was  one  who  lay  with 
yellow  breast  and  shoulders  bare  to  the  cold  drafts.  One 
arm  hung  over  the  side  of  the  cot,  and  the  fingers  lay  full 
length  upon  the  wet  cement  floor  of  the  room.  Beneath  the 
inky  brows  could  be  seen  the  eyes  of  the  man  exposed  by  the 
partly  opened  lids.  To  the  youth  it  seemed  that  he  and  this 
corpse-like  being  were  exchanging  a  prolonged  stare,  and 
that  the  other  threatened  with  his  eyes.  He  drew  back, 


120  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

watching  his  neighbor  from  the  shadows  of  his  blanket  edge. 
The  man  did  not  move  once  through  the  night,  but  lay  in 
this  stillness  as  of  death  like  a  body  stretched  out  expectant 
of  the  surgeon's  knife. 

And  all  through  the  room  could  be  seen  the  tawny  hues 
of  naked  flesh,  limbs  thrust  into  the  darkness,  projecting 
beyond  the  cots;  upreared  knees,  arms  hanging  long  and 
thin  over  the  cot  edges.  For  the  most  part  they  were  statu 
esque,  carven,  dead.  With  the  curious  lockers  standing  all 
about  like  tombstones,  there  was  a  strange  effect  of  a  grave 
yard  where  bodies  were  merely  flung. 

Yet  occasionally  could  be  seen  limbs  wildly  tossing  in 
fantastic  nightmare  gestures,  accompanied  by  guttural  cries, 
grunts,  oaths.  And  there  was  one  fellow  off  in  a  gloomy 
corner,  who  in  his  dreams  was  oppressed  by  some  frightful 
calamity,  for  of  a  sudden  he  began  to  utter  long  wails  that 
went  almost  like  yells  from  a  hound,  echoing  wailfully  and 
weird  through  this  chill  place  of  tombstones  where  men  lay 
like  the  dead. 

The  sound  in  its  high  piercing  beginnings,  that  dwindled 
to  final  melancholy  moans,  expressed  a  red  and  grim  tragedy 
of  the  unfathomable  possibilities  of  the  man's  dreams.  But 
to  the  youth  these  were  not  merely  the  shrieks  of  a  vision- 
pierced  man:  they  were  an  utterance  of  the  meaning  of  the 
room  and  its  occupants.  It  was  to  him  the  protest  of  the 
wretch  who  feels  the  touch  of  the  imperturbable  granite 
wheels,  and  who  then  cries  with  an  impersonal  eloquence, 
with  a  strength  not  from  him,  giving  voice  to  the  wail  of  a 
whole  section,  a  class,  a  people.  This,  weaving  into  the  young 
Mian's  brain,  and  mingling  with  his  views  of  the  vast  and 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY  121 

sombre  shadows  that,  like  mighty  black  fingers,  curled  around 
the  naked  bodies,  made  the  young  man  so  that  he  did  not 
sleep,  but  lay  carving  the  biographies  for  these  men  from  his 
meagre  experience.  At  times  the  fellow  in  the  corner  howled 
in  a  writhing  agony  of  his  imaginations. 

Finally  a  long  lance-point  of  grey  light  shot  through  the 
dusty  panes  of  the  window.  Without,  the  young  man  could 
see  roofs  drearily  white  in  the  dawning.  The  point  of  light 
yellowed  and  grew  brighter,  until  the  golden  rays  of  the 
morning  sun  came  in  bravely  and  strong.  They  touched 
with  radiant  color  the  form  of  a  small  fat  man,  who  snored 
in  stuttering  fashion.  His  round  and  shiny  bald  head  glowed 
suddenly  with  the  valor  of  a  decoration.  He  sat  up,  blinked 
at  the  sun,  swore  fretfully,  and  pulled  his  blanket  over  the 
ornamental  splendors  of  his  head. 

The  youth  contentedly  watched  this  rout  of  the  shadows 
before  the  bright  spears  of  the  sun,  and  presently  he  slum 
bered.  When  he  awoke  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  assassin 
raised  in  valiant  curses.  Putting  up  his  head,  he  perceived 
his  comrade  seated  on  the  side  of  the  cot  engaged  in  scratch 
ing  his  neck  with  long  finger-nails  that  rasped  like  files. 

"Hully  Jee,  dis  is  a  new  breed.  They've  got  can-openers 
on  their  feet."  He  continued  in  a  violent  tirade. 

The  young  man  hastily  unlocked  his  closet  and  took  out 
his  shoes  and  hat.  As  he  sat  on  the  side  of  the  cot  lacing 
his  shoes,  he  glanced  about  and  saw  that  daylight  had  made 
the  room  comparatively  commonplace  and  uninteresting. 
The  men,  whose  faces  seemed  stolid,  serene  or  absent,  were 
engaged  in  dressing,  while  a  great  crackle  of  bantering  con 
versation  arose. 


122  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

A  few  were  parading  in  unconcerned  nakedness.  Here  and 
there  were  men  of  brawn,  whose  skins  shone  clear  and  ruddy. 
They  took  splendid  poses,  standing  massively  like  chiefs. 
When  they  had  dressed  in  their  ungainly  garments  there  was 
an  extraordinary  change.  They  then  showed  bumps  and 
deficiencies  of  all  kinds. 

There  were  others  who  exhibited  many  deformities.  Shoul 
ders  were  slanting,  humped,  pulled  this  way  and  pulled  that 
way.  And  notable  among  these  latter  men  was  the  little  fat 
man  who  had  refused  to  allow  his  head  to  be  glorified.  His 
pudgy  form,  builded  like  a  pear,  bustled  to  and  fro,  while 
he  swore  in  fishwife  fashion.  It  appeared  that  some  article 
of  his  apparel  had  vanished. 

The  young  man  attired  speedily,  and  went  to  his  friend 
the  assassin.  At  first  the  latter  looked  dazed  at  the  sight 
of  the  youth.  This  face  seemed  to  be  appealing  to  him 
through  the  cloud  wastes  of  his  memory.  He  scratched  his 
(neck  and  reflected.  At  last  he  grinned,  a  broad  smile  grad 
ually  spreading  until  his  countenance  was  a  round  illumina 
tion.  "Hello,  Willie,"  he  cried  cheerily. 

"Hello,"  said  the  young  man.    "Are  yeh  ready  t'  fly?" 

"Sure."  The  assassin  tied  his  shoe  carefully  with  some 
twine  and  came  ambling. 

When  he  reached  the  street  the  young  man  experienced  no 
sudden  relief  from  unholy  atmospheres.  He  had  forgotten 
all  about  them,  and  had  been  breathing  naturally,  and  with  no 
sensation  of  discomfort  or  distress. 

He  was  thinking  of  these  things  as  he  walked  along  the 
street,  when  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  feeling  the  assas 
sin's  hand,  trembling  with  excitement,  clutching  his  arm, 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY  123 

and  when  the  assassin  spoke,  his  voice  went  into  quavers 
from  a  supreme  agitation. 

"I'll  be  hully,  bloomin'  blowed  if  there  wasn't  a  feller  with 
a  nightshirt  on  up  there  in  that  joint." 

The  youth  was  bewildered  for  a  moment,  but  presently  he 
turned  to  smile  indulgently  at  the  assassin's  humor. 

"Oh,  you're  a  d  --  d  liar,"  he  merely  said. 

Whereupon  the  assassin  began  to  gesture  extravagantly 
and  take  oath  by  strange  gods.  He  frantically  placed  him 
self  at  the  mercy  of  remarkable  fates  if  his  tale  were  not 
true. 

"Yes,  he  did!  I  cross  m'  heart  thousan'  times!"  he  pro- 
tested,  and  at  the  moment  his  eyes  were  large  with  amaze 
ment,  his  mouth  wrinkled  in  unnatural  glee. 

"Yessir!     A  nightshirt!     A  hully  white  nightshirt!" 

"You  lie!" 

"No,  sir!  I  hope  ter  die  b'fore  I  kin  git  anudder  ball  if 
chere  wasn't  a  jay  wid  a  hully,  bloomin'  white  nightshirt!" 

His  face  was  filled  with  the  infinite  wonder  of  it  "A 
hully  white  nightshirt,"  he  continually  repeated 

The  young  man  saw  the  dark  entrance  to  a  basement  res- 


our         v          ,  ' 

ou    hash'!    and  there  were  other  age-stained  and  world- 

battered  legends  which  told  him  that  the  place  was  within 
his  means  He  stopped  before  it  and  spoke  to  the  assassin 
"I  guess  I'll  git  somethin'  t'  eat." 

At  this  the  assassin,  for  some  reason,  appeared  to  be  quite 
embarrassed.  He  gazed  at  the  seductive  front  of  the  eSng 
pace  for  a  moment.  Then  he  started  slowly  up  the  street" 
"Well,  good-bye,  Willie,"  he  said  bravely. 

For  an  instant  the  youth  studied  the  departing  figure 


£24  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Then  he  called  out,  "Hoi'  on  a  minnet."  As  they  came 
together  he  spoke  in  a  certain  fierce  way,  as  if  he  feared  that 
the  other  would  think  him  to  be  charitable.  "Look-a-here, 
if  yeh  wanta  git  some  breakfas'  I'll  lend  yeh  three  cents  t' 
do  it  with.  But  say,  look-a-here,  you've  gota  git  out  an' 
hustle.  I  ain't  goin'  t'  support  yeh,  or  I'll  go  broke  b'fore 
night.  I  ain't  no  millionaire." 

"I  take  me  oath,  Willie,"  said  the  assassin  earnestly,  "th' 
on'y  thing  I  really  needs  is  a  ball.  Me  t'roat  feels  like  a 
fryin'-pan.  But  as  I  can't  get  a  ball,  why,  th'  next  bes' 
thing  is  breakfast,  an'  if  yeh  do  that  for  me,  b'  Gawd,  I  say 
yeh  was  th'  whitest  lad  I  ever  see." 

They  spent  a  few  moments  in  dexterous  exchanges  of 
phrases,  in  which  they  each  protested  that  the  other  was,  as 
the  assassin  had  originally  said,  "a  respecter'ble  gentlem'n." 
And  they  concluded  with  mutual  assurances  that  they  were 
the  souls  of  intelligence  and  virtue.  Then  they  went  into 
the  restaurant. 

There  was  a  long  counter,  dimly  lighted  from  hidden 
sources.  Two  or  three  men  in  soiled  white  aprons  rushed 
"here  and  there. 

The  youth  bought  a  bowl  of  coffee  for  two  cents  and  a 
roll  for  one  cent.  The  assassin  purchased  the  same.  The 
bowls  were  webbed  with  brown  seams,  and  the  tin  spoons 
wore  an  air  of  having  emerged  from  the  first  pyramid.  Upon 
them  were  black  mosslike  encrustations  of  age,  and  they 
were  bent  and  scarred  from  the  attacks  of  long-forgotten 
teeth.  But  over  their  repast  the  wanderers  waxed  warm  and 
mellow.  The  assassin  grew  affable  as  the  hot  mixture  went 
soothingly  down  his  parched  throat,  and  the  young  man  felt 
courage  flow  in  his  veins. 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  MISERY  125 

Memories  began  to  throng  in  on  the  asssasin,  and  he 
brought  forth  long  tales,  intricate,  incoherent,  delivered  with 

a  chattering  swiftness  as  from  an  old  woman.     " great 

job  out'n  Orange.  Boss  keep  yeh  hustlin'  though  all  time. 
I  was  there  three  days,  and  then  I  went  an'  ask  'im  t'  lend 
me  a  dollar.  'G-g-go  ter  the  devil,'  he  ses,  an'  I  lose  me 
job." 

"South  no  good.  Damn  niggers  work  for  twenty-five  an' 
thirty  cents  a  day.  Run  white  man  out.  Good  grub, 
though.  Easy  livin'." 

"Yas;  useter  work  little  in  Toledo,  raftin'  logs.  Make 
two  or  three  dollars  er  day  in  the  spring.  Lived  high.  Cold 
as  ice,  though,  in  the  winter." 

"I  was  raised  in  northern  N'York.  O-a-ah,  yeh  jest 
oughto  live  there.  No  beer  ner  whisky,  though,  way  off  in 
the  woods.  But  all  th'  good  hot  grub  yeh  can  eat.  B'Gawd, 
I  hung  around  there  long  as  I  could  till  th'  oP  man  fired  me. 
'Git  t'  hell  outa  here,  yeh  wuthless  skunk,  git  t'  hell  outa 
here,  an'  go  die,'  he  ses.  'You're  a  hell  of  a  father,'  I  ses, 
'you  are,'  an'  I  quit  'im." 

As  they  were  passing  from  the  dim  eating  place,  they  en 
countered  an  old  man  who  was  trying  to  steal  forth  with  a 
tiny  package  of  food,  but  a  tall  man  with  an  indomitable 
moustache  stood  dragon  fashion,  barring  the  way  of  escape. 
They  heard  the  old  man  raise  a  plaintive  protest.  "Ah, 
you  always  want  to  know  what  I  take  out,  and  you  never 
see  that  I  usually  bring  a  package  in  here  from  my  place  of 
business." 

As  the  wanderers  trudged  slowly  along  Park  Row,  the 
assassin  began  to  expand  and  grow  blithe.  "B'Gawd,  we've 


126  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

been  livin'  like  kings,"  he  said,  smacking  appreciative  lips. 

"Look  out,  or  we'll  have  t'  pay  fer  it  t'night,"  said  the 
youth  with  gloomy  warning. 

But  the  assassin  refused  to  turn  his  gaze  toward  the  future. 
He  went  with  a  limping  step,  into  which  he  injected  a  sug 
gestion  of  lamblike  gambols.  His  mouth  was  wreathed  in  a 
red  grin. 

In  the  City  Hall  Park  the  two  wanderers  sat  down  in  the 
h'ttle  circle  of  benches  sanctified  by  traditions  of  their  class. 
They  huddled  in  their  old  garments,  slumbrously  conscious 
of  the  march  of  the  hours  which  for  them  had  no  meaning. 

The  people  of  the  street  hurrying  hither  and  thither  made 
a  blend  of  black  figures  changing  yet  frieze-like.  They 
walked  in  their  good  clothes  as  upon  important  missions,  giv 
ing  no  gaze  to  the  two  wanderers  seated  upon  the  benches. 
They  expressed  to  the  young  man  his  infinite  distance  from 
all  that  he  valued.  Social  position,  comfort,  the  pleasures  of 
living,  were  unconquerable  kingdoms.  He  felt  a  sudden 
awe. 

And  in  the  background  a  multitude  of  buildings,  of  pitiless 
hues  and  sternly  high,  were  to  him  emblematic  of  a  nation 
forcing  its  regal  head  into  the  clouds,  throwing  no  downward 
glances;  in  the  sublimity  of  its  aspirations  ignoring  the 
wretches  who  may  flounder  at  its  feet.  The  roar  of  the  city 
in  his  ear  was  to  him  the  confusion  of  strange  tongues, 
babbling  heedlessly;  it  was  the  clink  of  coin,  the  voice  of  the 
city's  hopes  which  were  to  him  no  hopes. 

He  confessed  himself  an  outcast,  and  his  eyes  from  under 
the  lowered  rim  of  his  hat  began  to  glance  guiltily,  wearing 
the  criminal  expression  that  comes  with  certain  convictions. 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT 
FOUGHT 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT 

PATSY  TULLIGAN  was  not  as  wise  as  seven  owls,  but  his 
courage  could  throw  a  shadow  as  long  as  the  steeple  of  a 
cathedral.  There  were  men  on  Cherry  Street  who  had 
whipped  him  five  times,  but  they  all  knew  that  Patsy  would 
be  as  ready  for  the  sixth  time  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Once  he  and  two  friends  had  been  away  up  on  Eighth 
Avenue,  far  out  of  their  country,  and  upon  their  return 
journey  that  evening  they  stopped  frequently  in  saloons  until 
they  were  as  independent  of  their  surroundings  as  eagles,  and 
cared  much  less  about  thirty  days  on  BlackwelPs. 

On  Lower  Sixth  Avenue  they  paused  in  a  saloon  where 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  lamp-glare  and  polished  wood  to  be 
seen  from  the  outside,  and  within,  the  mellow  light  shone  on 
much  furbished  brass  and  more  polished  wood.  It  was  a 
better  saloon  than  they  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing,  but  they 
did  not  mind  it.  They  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little  tables 
that  were  in  a  row  parallel  to  the  bar  and  ordered  beer. 
They  blinked  stolidly  at  the  decorations,  the  bartender,  and 
the  other  customers.  When  anything  transpired  they  dis 
cussed  it  with  dazzling  frankness,  and  what  they  said  of  it 
was  as  free  as  air  to  the  other  people  in  the  place. 

At  midnight  there  were  few  people  in  the  saloon.  Patsy 
and  his  friends  still  sat  drinking.  Two  well-dressed  men 

129 


I3o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

were  at  another  table,  smoking  cigars  slowly  and  swinging 
back  in  their  chairs.  They  occupied  themselves  with  them 
selves  in  the  usual  manner,  never  betraying  by  a  wink  of  an 
eyelid  that  they  knew  that  other  folk  existed.  At  another 
table  directly  behind  Patsy  and  his  companions  was  a  slim 
little  Cuban,  with  miraculously  small  feet  and  hands,  and 
with  a  youthful  touch  of  down  upon  his  lip.  As  he  lifted 
his  cigarette  from  time  to  time  his  little  finger  was  bended 
in  dainty  fashion,  and  there  was  a  green  flash  when  a  huge 
emerald  ring  caught  the  light.  The  bartender  came  often 
with  his  little  brass  tray.  Occasionally  Patsy  and  his  two 
friends  quarrelled. 

Once  this  little  Cuban  happened  to  make  some  slight  noise 
and  Patsy  turned  his  head  to  observe  him.  Then  Patsy 
made  a  careless  and  rather  loud  comment  to  his  two  friends. 
He  used  a  word  which  is  no  more  than  passing  the  time  of 
day  down  in  Cherry  Street,  but  to  the  Cuban  it  was  a  dag 
ger-point.  There  was  a  harsh  scraping  sound  as  a  chair  was 
pushed  swiftly  back. 

The  little  Cuban  was  upon  his  feet.  His  eyes  were  shin 
ing  with  a  rage  that  flashed  there  like  sparks  as  he  glared 
at  Patsy.  His  olive  face  had  turned  a  shade  of  grey  from 
his  anger.  Withal  his  chest  was  thrust  out  in  portentous 
dignity,  and  his  hand,  still  grasping  his  wine-glass,  was  cool 
and  steady,  the  little  finger  still  bended,  the  great  emerald 
gleaming  upon  it.  The  others,  motionless,  stared  at  him. 

"Sir,"  he  began  ceremoniously.  He  spoke  gravely  and  in 
a  slow  way,  his  tone  coming  in  a  marvel  of  self-possessed 
cadences  from  between  those  lips  which  quivered  with 
wrath.  You  have  insult  me.  You  are  a  dog,  a  hound, 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT        131 

a  cur.    I  spit  upon  you.    I  must  have  some  of  your  blood." 

Patsy  looked  at  him  over  his  shoulder. 

"What's  th'  matter  wi'  che?"  he  demanded.  He  did  not 
quite  understand  the  words  of  this  little  man  who  glared  at 
him  steadily,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  something  about  fight 
ing.  He  snarled  with  the  readiness  of  his  class  and  heaved 
his  shoulders  contemptuously.  "Ah,  what's  eatin'  yeh?  Take 
a  walk!  You  hain't  got  nothin'  t'  do  with  me,  have  yeh? 
Well,  den,  go  sit  on  yerself." 

And  his  companions  leaned  back  valorously  in  their  chairs, 
and  scrutinized  this  slim  young  fellow  who  was  addressing 
Patsy. 

"What's  de  little  Dago  chewin'  about?" 

"He  wants  t'  scrap!" 

"What!" 

The  Cuban  listened  with  apparent  composure.  It  was 
only  when  they  laughed  that  his  body  cringed  as  if  he  was 
receiving  lashes.  Presently  he  put  down  his  glass  and  walked 
over  to  their,  table.  He  proceeded  always  with  the  most 
impressive  deliberation. 

"Sir,"  he  began  again.  "You  have  insult  me.  I  must 
have  s-s-satisfac-shone.  I  must  have  your  body  upon  the 
point  of  my  sword.  In  my  country  you  would  already  be 
dead.  I  must  have  s-s-satisfac-shone." 

Patsy  had  looked  at  the  Cuban  with  a  trifle  of  bewilder 
ment.  But  at  last  his  face  began  to  grow  dark  with  bellig 
erency,  his  mouth  curved  in  that  wide  sneer  with  which  he 
would  confront  an  angel  of  darkness.  He  arose  suddenly  in 
bis  seat  and  came  towards  the  little  Cuban.  He  was  going 
to  be  impressive  too. 


i32  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Say,  young  feller,  if  yeh  go  shootin'  off  yer  face  at  me, 
I'll  wipe  d'  joint  wid  yeh.  What'cher  gaffin'  about,  hey? 
Are  yeh  givin'  me  er  jolly?  Say,  if  yeh  pick  me  up  fer  a 
cinch,  I'll  fool  yeh.  Dat's  what!  Don't  take  me  fer  no 
dead  easy  mug."  And  as  he  glowered  at  the  little  Cuban, 
he  ended  his  oration  with  one  eloquent  word,  "Nit!" 

The  bartender  nervously  polished  his  bar  with  a  towel, 
and  kept  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  men.  Occasionally  he 
became  transfixed  with  interest,  leaning  forward  with  one 
hand  upon  the  edge  of  the  bar  and  the  other  holding  the 
towel  grabbed  in  a  lump,  as  if  he  had  been  turned  into  bronze 
when  in  the  very  act  of  polishing. 

The  Cuban  did  not  move  when  Patsy  came  toward  him 
and  delivered  his  oration.  At  its  conclusion  he  turned  his 
livid  face  toward  where,  above  him,  Patsy  was  swaggering 
and  heaving  his  shoulders  in  a  consummate  display  of  brav 
ery  and  readiness.  The  Cuban,  in  his  clear,  tense  tones, 
spoke  one  word.  It  was  the  bitter  insult.  It  seemed  fairly 
to  spin  from  his  lips  and  crackle  in  the  air  like  breaking 
glass. 

Every  man  save  the  little  Cuban  made  an  electric  move 
ment.  Patsy  roared  a  black  oath  and  thrust  himself  forward 
until  he  towered  almost  directly  above  the  other  man.  His 
fists  were  doubled  into  knots  of  bone  and  hard  flesh.  The 
Cuban  had  raised  a  steady  finger. 

"If  you  touch  me  wis  your  hand,  I  will  keel  you." 
The  two  well-dressed  men  had  come  swiftly,  uttering  pro 
testing  cries.     They  suddenly  intervened  in  this  second  of 
time  in  which  Patsy  had  sprung  forward  and  the  Cuban  had 
uttered  his  threat.    The  four  men  were  now  a  tossing,  argu- 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT        133 

ing,  violent  group,  one  well-dressed  man  lecturing  the  Cuban, 
and  the  other  holding  off  Patsy,  who  was  now  wild  with  rage, 
loudly  repeating  the  Cuban's  threat,  and  maneuvering  and 
struggling  to  get  at  him  for  revenge's  sake. 

The  bartender,  feverishly  scouring  away  with  his  towel, 
and  at  times  pacing  to  and  fro  with  nervous  and  excited 
tread,  shouted  out — 

"Say,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't  fight  in  here.  If  yeh  wanta 
fight,  go  out  in  the  street  and  fight  all  yeh  please.  But  don't 
fight  in  here." 

Patsy  knew  one  only  thing,  and  this  he  kept  repeating: 

"Well,  he  wants  t'  scrap!  I  didn't  begin  dis!  He  wants 
t'  scrap." 

The  well-dressed  man  confronting  him  continually  re 
plied — 

"Oh,  well,  now,  look  here,  he's  only  a  lad.  He  don't 
know  what  he's  doing.  He's  crazy  mad.  You  wouldn't  slug 
a  kid  like  that." 

Patsy  and  his  aroused  companions,  who  cursed  and 
growled,  were  persistent  with  their  argument.  "Well,  he 
wants  t'  scrap!"  The  whole  affair  was  as  plain  as  daylight 
when  one  saw  this  great  fact.  The  interference  and  intoler 
able  discussion  brought  the  three  of  them  forward,  battlefu! 
and  fierce. 

"What's  eatin'  you,  anyhow?"  they  demanded.  "Dis  ain't 
your  business,  is  it?  What  business  you  got  shoo  tin'  off 
your  face?" 

The  other  peacemaker  was  trying  to  restrain  the  little 
Cuban,  who  had  grown  shrill  and  violent. 

"If  he  touch  me  wis  his  hand  I  will  keel  him.     We  must 


X34  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

fight  like  gentlemen  or  else  I  keel  him  when  he  touch  me 

wis  his  hand." 

The  man  who  was  fending  off  Patsy  comprehended  these 
sentences  that  were  screamed  behind  his  back,  and  he  ex 
plained  to  Patsy. 

"But  he  wants  to  fight  you  with  swords.     With  swords. 

you  know." 

The  Cuban,  dodging  around  the  peacemakers,  yelled  in 

Patsy's  face— 

"Ah,  if  I  could  get  you  before  me  wis  my  sword!  Ah! 
Ah!  A-a-ah!"  Patsy  made  a  furious  blow  with  a  swift 
fist,  but  the  peacemakers  bucked  against  his  body  suddenly 
like  football  players. 

Patsy  was  greatly  puzzled.  He  continued  doggedly  to 
try  to  get  near  enough  to  the  Cuban  to  punch  him.  To  these 
attempts  the  Cuban  replied  savagely— 

"If  you  touch  me  wis  your  hand,  I  will  cut  your  heart  in 
two  piece." 

At  last  Patsy  said — "Well,  if  he's  so  dead  stuck  on  fightin' 
wid  swords,  I'll  fight  'im.  Soitenly!  I'll  fight  '<im."  All 
this  palaver  had  evidently  tired  him,  and  he  now  puffed  out 
his  lips  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  willing  to  submit  to 
any  conditions  if  he  can  only  bring  on  the  row  soon  enough. 
He  swaggered,  "I'll  fight  'im  wid  swords.  Let  'im  bring  on 
his  swords,  an'  I'll  fight  'im  'til  he's  ready  t'  quit." 

The  two  well-dressed  men  grinned.  "Why,  look  here," 
they  said  to  Patsy,  "he'd  punch  you  full  of  holes.  Why 
he's  a  fencer.  You  can't  fight  him  with  swords.  He'd  kill 
you  in  'bout  a  minute." 

"Well,  I'll  giv'  'im  a  go  at  it,  anyhow,"  said  Patsy,  stout- 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT        135 

hearted  and  resolute.  "I'll  giv'  'im  a  go  at  it,  anyhow,  an* 
I'll  stay  wid  'im  as  long  as  I  kin." 

As  for  the  Cuban,  his  lithe  body  was  quivering  in  an  ecs 
tasy  of  the  muscles.  His  face  radiant  with  a  savage  joy, 
he  fastened  his  glance  upon  Patsy,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  a 
gloating,  murderous  light.  A  most  unspeakable,  animal-like 
rage  was  in  his  expression. 

"Ah!  ah!  He  will  fight  me!  Ah!"  He  bended  uncon 
sciously  in  the  posture  of  a  fencer.  He  had  all  the  quick, 
springy  movements  of  a  skilful  swordsman.  "Ah,  the 
b-r-r-rute!  The  b-r-r-rute!  I  will  stick  him  like  a  pig!" 

The  two  peacemakers,  still  grinning  broadly,  were  having 
a  great  time  with  Patsy. 

"Why,  you  infernal  idiot,  this  man  would  slice  you  all  up. 
You  better  jump  off  the  bridge  if  you  want  to  commit  suicide. 
You  wouldn't  stand  a  ghost  of  a  chance  to  live  ten  seconds." 

Patsy  was  as  unshaken  as  granite.  "Well,  if  he  wants  t* 
fight  wid  swords,  he'll  get  it.  I'll  giv'  'im  a  go  at  it,  any 
how." 

One  man  said — "Well,  have  you  got  a  sword?  Do  you 
know  what  a  sword  is?  Have  you  got  a  sword?" 

"No,  I  ain't  got  none,"  said  Patsy  honestly,  "but  I  kin 
git  one."  Then  he  added  valiantly — "An'  quick,  too." 

The  two  men  laughed.  "Why,  can't  you  understand  it 
would  be  sure  death  to  fight  a  sword  duel  with  this  fellow?" 

"Dat's  all  right!  See?  I  know  me  own  business.  If  he 
wants  t'  fight  one  of  dees  d— n  duels,  I'm  in  it,  understand" 

"Have  you  ever  fought  one,  you  fool?" 

"No,  I  ain't.  But  I  will  fight  one,  dough!  I  ain't  no 
muff.  If  he  wants  t'  fight  a  duel,  by  Gawd,  I'm  wid  'im! 


I36  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

D'yeh  understan'  dat!"     Patsy  cocked  his  hat  and  swag 
gered.    He  was  getting  very  serious. 

The  little  Cuban  burst  out— "Ah,  come  on,  sirs:  come  on! 
We  can  take  cab.  Ah,  you  big  cow,  I  will  stick  you,  I  will 
stick  you.  Ah,  you  will  look  very  beautiful,  very  beautiful. 
Ah,  come  on,  sirs.  We  will  stop  at  hotel— my  hotel.  I  there 
have  weapons." 

"Yeh  will,  will  yeh?  Yeh  bloomin'  little  black  Dago!" 
cried  Patsy  in  hoarse  and  maddened  reply  to  the  personal 
part  of  the  Cuban's  speech.  He  stepped  forward.  "Git  yer 
d— n  swords,"  he  commanded.  "Git  yer  swords.  Git  'em 
quick!  I'll  fight  wd'  che!  I'll  fight  wid  anyt'ing,  too!  See? 
I'll  fight  yeh  wid  a  knife  an'  fork  if  yeh  say  so!  I'll  fight 
yer  standin'  up  er  sittin'  down!"  Patsy  delivered  this  in 
tense  oration  with  sweeping,  intensely  emphatic  gestures,  his 
hands  stretched  out  eloquently,  his  jaw  thrust  forward,  his 
eyes  glaring. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  little  Cuban  joyously.  "Ah,  you  are  in 
very  pretty  temper.  Ah,  how  I  will  cut  your  heart  in  two 
piece,  my  dear,  d-e-a-r  friend."  His  eyes,  too,  shone  like 
carbuncles,  with  a  swift,  changing  glitter,  always  fastened 
upon  Patsy's  face. 

The  two  peacemakers  were  perspiring  and  in  despair.  One 
of  them  blurted  out — 

"Well,  I'll  be  blamed  if  this  ain't  the  most  ridiculous  thing 
I  ever  saw." 

The  other  said — "For  ten  dollars  I'd  be  tempted  to  let 
these  two  infernal  blockheads  have  their  duel." 

Patsy  was  strutting  to  and  fro,  and  conferring  grandly 
with  bis  friends. 


THE  DUEL  THAT  WAS  NOT  FOUGHT        137 

"He  took  me  for  a  muff.  He  fought  he  was  goin'  t'  bluff 
me  out,  talkin'  'bout  swords.  He'll  get  fooled."  He  ad 
dressed  the  Cuban — "You're  a  fine  little  dirty  picter  of  a 
scrapper,  ain't  che?  I'll  chew  yez  up,  dat's  what  I  will!" 

There  began  then  some  rapid  action.  The  patience  of 
well-dressed  men  is  not  an  eternal  thing.  It  began  to  look 
as  if  it  would  at  last  be  a  fight  with  six  corners  to  it.  The 
faces  of  the  men  were  shining  red  with  anger.  They  jostled 
each  other  defiantly,  and  almost  every  one  blazed  out  at 
three  or  four  of  the  others.  The  bartender  had  given  up 
protesting.  He  swore  for  a  time  and  banged  his  glasses. 
Then  he  jumped  the  bar  and  ran  out  of  the  saloon,  cursing 
sullenly. 

When  he  came  back  with  a  policeman,  Patsy  and  the 
Cuban  were  preparing  to  depart  together.  Patsy  was  de 
livering  his  last  oration — 

"I'll  fight  yer  wid  swords!  Sure  I  will!  Come  ahead, 
Dago!  I'll  fight  yeh  anywheres  wid  anyt'ing!  We'll  have 
a  large,  juicy  scrap,  an'  don't  yeh  forgit  dat!  I'm  right 
wid  yez.  I  ain't  no  muff!  I  scrap  with  a  man  jest  as  soon 
as  he  ses  scrap,  an'  if  yeh  wanta  scrap,  I'm  yer  kitten.  Un- 
derstan'  dat?" 

The  policeman  said  sharply — "Come,  now;  what's  all 
this?"  He  had  a  distinctly  business  air. 

The  little  Cuban  stepped  forward  calmly.  "It  is  none  of 
your  business." 

The  policeman  flushed  to  his  ears.     "What?" 

One  well-dressed  man  touched  the  other  on  the  sleeve. 
"Here's  the  time  to  skip,"  he  whispered.  They  halted  a 
block  away  from  the  saloon  and  watched  the  policeman  pull 


i38  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

the  Cuban  through  the  door.  There  was  a  minute  of  scuffle 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  into  this  deserted  street  at  midnight 
fifty  people  appeared  at  once  as  if  from  the  sky  to  watch  it. 

At  last  the  three  Cherry  Hill  men  came  from  the  saloon, 
and  swaggered  with  all  their  old  valor  toward  the  peace 
makers. 

"Ah,"  said  Patsy  to  them,  "he  was  so  hot  talkin'  about 
this  duel  business,  but  I  would  a-given  'im  a  great  scrap,  an' 
don't  yeh  forgit  it." 

For  Patsy  was  not  as  wise  as  seven  owls,  but  his  courage 
could  throw  a  shadow  as  long  as  the  steeple  of  a  cathedral. 


A  DESERTION 


A  DESERTION 

THE  yellow  gaslight  that  came  with  an  effect  of  difficulty 
through  the  dust-stained  windows  on  either  side  of  the  door 
gave  strange  hues  to  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  three 
women  who  stood  gabbling  in  the  hallway  of  the  tenement. 
They  made  rapid  gestures,  and  in  the  background  their 
enormous  shadows  mingled  in  terrific  conflict. 

"Aye,  she  ain't  so  good  as  he  thinks  she  is,  I'll  bet.  He 
can  watch  over  'er  an'  take  care  of  'er  all  he  pleases,  but 
when  she  wants  t'  fool  'im,  she'll  fool  'im.  An'  how  does  he 
know  she  ain't  foolin'  im'  now?" 

"Oh,  he  thinks  he's  keepin'  'er  from  goin'  t'  th'  bad,  he 
does.  Oh,  yes.  He  ses  she's  too  purty  t'  let  run  round 
alone.  Too  purty!  Huh!  My  Sadie " 

"Well,  he  keeps  a  clost  watch  on  'er,  you  bet.  On'y  las' 
week,  she  met  my  boy  Tim  on  th'  stairs,  an'  Tim  hadn't  said 
two  words  to  'er  b'fore  th'  oP  man  begin  to  holler.  "Dorter, 
dorter,  come  here,  come  here!' " 

At  this  moment  a  young  girl  entered  from  the  street,  and  it 
was  evident  from  the  injured  expression  suddenly  assumed 
by  the  three  gossipers  that  she  had  been  the  object  of  their 
discussion.  She  passed  them  with  a  slight  nod,  and  they 
swung  about  into  a  row  to  stare  after  her. 

On  her  way  up  the  long  flights  the  girl  unfastened  her 
veil.  One  could  then  clearly  see  the  beauty  of  her  eyes, 

141 


i42  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

but  there  was  in  them  a  certain  furtiveness  that  came  near 
to  marring  the  effects.  It  was  a  peculiar  fixture  of  gaze, 
brought  from  the  street,  as  of  one  who  there  saw  a  succes 
sion  of  passing  dangers  with  menaces  aligned  at  every  corner. 

On  the  top  floor,  she  pushed  open  a  door  and  then  paused 
on  the  threshold,  confronting  an  interior  that  appeared  black 
and  flat  like  a  curtain.  Perhaps  some  girlish  idea  of  hob 
goblins  assailed  her  then,  for  she  called  in  a  little  breathless 
voice,  "Daddie!" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  fire  in  the  cooking-stove  in  the 
room  crackled  at  spasmodic  intervals.  One  lid  was  mis 
placed,  and  the  girl  could  now  see  that  this  fact  created  a 
little  flushed  crescent  upon  the  ceiling.  Also,  a  series  of 
tiny  windows  in  the  stove  caused  patches  of  red  upon  the 
floor.  Otherwise,  the  room  was  heavily  draped  with  shadows. 

The  girl  called  again,  "Daddie!" 

Yet  there  was  no  reply. 

"Oh,  Daddie!" 

Presently  she  laughed  as  one  familiar  with  the  humors  of 
an  old  man.  "Oh,  I  guess  yer  cussin'  mad  about  yer  sup 
per,  Dad,"  she  said,  and  she  almost  entered  the  room,  but 
suddenly  faltered,  overcome  by  a  feminine  instinct  to  fly 
From  this  black  interior,  peopled  with  imagined  dangers. 

Again  she  called,  "Daddie!"  Her  voice  had  an  accent  of 
ippeal.  It  was  as  if  she  knew  she  was  foolish  but  yet  felt 
)bliged  to  insist  upon  being  reassured.  "Oh,  Daddie!" 

Of  a  sudden  a  cry  of  relief,  a  feminine  announcement  that 
he  stars  still  hung,  burst  from  her.  For,  according  to  some 
nystic  process,  the  smoldering  coals  of  the  fire  went  aflame 
rith  sudden,  fierce  brilliance,  splashing  parts  of  the  walls,  the 


A  DESERTION  143 

floor,  the  crude  furniture,  with  a  hue  of  blood-red.  And  in 
the  light  of  this  dramatic  outburst  of  light,  the  girl  saw 
her  father  seated  at  a  table  with  his  back  turned  toward  her. 

She  entered  the  room,  then,  with  an  aggrieved  air,  her 
logic  evidently  concluding  that  somebody  was  to  blame  for 
her  nervous  fright.  "Oh,  yer  on'y  sulkin'  'bout  yer  supper. 
I  thought  mebbe  ye'd  gone  somewheres." 

Her  father  made  no  reply.  She  went  over  to  a  shelf  in 
the  corner,  and,  taking  a  little  lamp,  she  lit  it  and  put  it 
where  it  would  give  her  light  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  jacket 
in  front  of  the  tiny  mirror.  Presently  she  began  to  bustle 
among  the  cooking  utensils  that  were  crowded  into  the  sink, 
and  as  she  worked  she  rattled  talk  at  her  father,  apparently 
disdaining  his  mood. 

"I'd  'a'  come  home  earlier  t'night,  Dad,  on'y  that  fly 
foreman,  he  kep'  me  in  th'  shop  'til  half-past  six.  What  a 
fool!  He  came  t'  me,  yeh  know,  an'  he  ses,  'Nell,  I  wanta 
give  yeh  some  brotherly  advice.'  Oh,  I  know  him  an'  his 
brotherly  advice.  'I  wanta  give  yeh  some  brotherly  ad 
vice.  Yer  too  purty,  Nell,'  he  ses,  't'  be  workin'  in  this 
shop  an'  paradin'  through  the  streets  alone,  without  some 
body  t'  give  yeh  good  brotherly  advice,  an'  I  wanta  warn 
yeh,  Nell.  I'm  a  bad  man,  but  I  ain't  as  bad  as  some,  an' 
I  wanta  warn  yeh.'  'Oh,  g'long  Trout  yer  business,'  I  ses. 
I  know  'im.  He's  like  all  of  'em,  on'y  he's  a  little  slyer.  I 
know  'im.  'You  g'long  'bout  yer  business,'  I  ses.  Well, 
he  ses  after  a  while  that  he  guessed  some  evemn'  he'd  come 
up  an'  see  me.  'Oh,  yeh  will,'  I  ses,  'yeh  will?  Well,  you 
jest  let  my  oP  man  ketch  yeh  comin'  foolin'  'round  our  place. 
Yeh'll  wish  yeh  went  t'  some  other  girl  t'  give  brotherly  ad- 


144  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

vice.'  'Whatth'  'ell  do  I  care  fer  yer  father?' he  ses.  'What's 
he  t'  me?'  'If  he  throws  yeh  downstairs,  yeh'll  care  for 
'im,'  I  ses.  'Well,'  he  ses,  'I'll  come  when  'e  ain't  in,  b' 
Gawd,  I'll  come  when  'e  ain't  in.'  'Oh,  he's  allus  in  when 
it  means  takdn'  care  'o  me,'  I  ses.  'Don't  yeh  fergit  it, 
either.  When  it  comes  t'  takin'  care  o'  his  dorter,  he's  right 
on  deck  every  single  possible  time.' ' 

After  a  time,  she  turned  and  addressed  cheery  words  to 
the  old  man.  "Hurry  up  th'  fire,  Daddie!  We'll  have  sup 
per  pretty  soon." 

But  still  her  father  was  silent,  and  his  form  in  its  sullen 
posture  was  motionless. 

At  this,  the  girl  seemed  to  see  the  need  of  the  inauguration 
of  a  feminine  war  against  a  man  out  of  temper.  She  ap 
proached  him  breathing  soft,  coaxing  syllables. 

"Daddie!     Oh,  Daddie!     O— o— oh,  Daddie!" 

It  was  apparent  from  a  subtle  quality  of  valor  in  her  tones 
that  this  manner  of  onslaught  upon  his  moods  had  usually 
been  successful,  but  to-night  it  had  no  quick  effect.  The 
words,  coming  from  her  lips,  were  like  the  refrain  of  an 
old  ballad,  but  the  man  remained  stolid. 

"Daddie!  My  Daddie!  Oh,  Daddie,  are  yeh  mad  at 
me,  really — truly  mad  at  me!" 

She  touched  him  lightly  upon  the  arm.  Should  he  have 
turned  then  he  would  have  seen  the  fresh,  laughing  face, 
with  dew-sparkling  eyes,  close  to  his  own. 

"Oh,  Daddie!     My  Daddie!     Pretty  Daddie! " 

She  stole  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  then  slowly  bended 
her  face  toward  his.  It  was  the  action  of  a  queen  who  knows 
iiat  she  reigns  notwithstanding  irritations,  trials,  tempests. 


A  DESERTION  145 

But  suddenly,  from  this  position,  she  leaped  backward 
with  the  mad  energy  of  a  frightened  colt.  Her  face  was  in 
this  instant  turned  to  a  grey,  featureless  thing  of  horror.  A 
yell,  wild  and  hoarse  as  a  brute-cry,  burst  from  her.  "Dad- 
die!"  She  flung  herself  to  a  place  near  the  door,  where  she 
remained,  crouching,  her  eyes  staring  at  the  motionless  fig 
ure,  spattered  by  the  quivering  flashes  from  the  fire.  Her 
arms  extended,  and  her  frantic  fingers  at  once  besought  and, 
repelled.  There  was  in  them  an  expression  of  eagerness  to 
caress  and  an  expression  of  the  most  intense  loathing.  And 
the  girl's  hair  that  had  been  a  splendor,  was  in  these  mo 
ments  changed  to  a  disordered  mass  that  hung  and  swayed 
in  witchlike  fashion. 

Again,  a  terrible  cry  burst  from  her.  It  was  more  than 
the  shriek  of  agony — it  was  directed,  personal,  addressed  to 
him  in  the  chair,  the  first  word  of  a  tragic  conversation  with 
the  dead. 

It  seemed  that  when  she  had  put  her  arm  about  its  neck, 
she  had  jostled  the  corpse  in  such  a  way  that  now  she  and  it 
were  face  to  face.  The  attitude  expressed  an  intention  of 
arising  from  the  table.  The  eyes,  fixed  upon  hers,  were  filled 

with  an  unspeakable  hatred. 

******* 

The  cries  of  the  girl  aroused  thunders  in  the  tenement. 
There  was  a  loud  slamming  of  doors,  and  presently  there 
was  a  roar  of  feet  upon  the  boards  of  the  stairway.  Voices 
rang  out  sharply. 

"What  is  it?" 

"What's  th'  matter?" 

"He's  killin'  her!" 


i46  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Slug  Jfm  with  any  thin'  yeh  kin  lay  hold  of,  Jack!" 
But  over  all  this  came  the  shrill,  shrewish  tones  of  a 
woman.     "Ah,  th'  damned  ol'  fool,  he's  drivin'  'er  inteh  th' 
street — that's  what  he's  doin'.     He's  drivin'   'er  inteh  th' 
street." 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG 

A  CHILD  was  standing  on  a  street-corner.  He  leaned  with 
one  shoulder  against  a  high  board  fence  and  swayed  the 
other  to  and  fro,  the  while  kicking  carelessly  at  the  gravel. 

Sunshine  beat  upon  the  cobbles,  and  a  lazy  summer  wind 
raised  yellow  dust  which  trailed  in  clouds  down  the  avenue. 
Clattering  trucks  moved  with  indistinctness  through  it.  The 
child  stood  dreamily  gazing. 

After  a  time,  a  little  dark-brown  dog  came  trotting  with 
an  intent  air  down  the  sidewalk.  A  short  rope  was  drag 
ging  from  his  neck.  Occasionally  he  trod  upon  the  end  of 
it  and  stumbled. 

He  stopped  opposite  the  child,  and  the  two  regarded  each 
other.  The  dog  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  presently  he 
made  some  little  advances  with  his  tail.  The  child  put  out 
his  hand  and  called  him.  In  an  apologetic  manner  the  dog 
came  close,  and  the  two  had  an  interchange  of  friendly  pat- 
tings  and  waggles.  The  dog  became  more  enthusiastic  with 
each  moment  of  the  interview,  until  with  his  gleeful  caper- 
ings  he  threatened  to  overturn  the  child.  Whereupon  the 
child  lifted  his  hand  and  struck  the  dog  a  blow  upon  the 
head. 

This  thing  seemed  to  overpower  and  astonish  the  little 
dark-brown  dog,  and  wounded  him  to  the  heart.  He  sank 

149 


150  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

down  in  despair  at  the  child's  feet.  When  the  blow  was 
repeated,  together  with  an  admonition  in  childish  sentences, 
he  turned  over  upon  his  back,  and  held  his  paws  in  a  pecu 
liar  manner.  At  the  same  time  with  his  ears  and  his  eyes 
he  offered  a  small  prayer  to  the  child. 

He  looked  so  comical  on  his  back,  and  holding  his  paws 
peculiarly,  that  the  child  was  greatly  amused  and  gave  him 
little  taps  repeatedly,  to  keep  him  so.  But  the  little  dark- 
brown  dog  took  this  chastisement  in  the  most  serious  way. 
and  no  doubt  considered  that  he  had  committed  some  grave 
crime,  for  he  wriggled  contritely  and  showed  his  repentance 
in  every  way  that  was  in  his  power.  He  pleaded  with  the 
child  and  petitioned  him,  and  offered  more  prayers. 

At  last  the  child  grew  weary  of  this  amusement  and  turned 
toward  home.  The  dog  was  praying  at  the  time.  He  lay 
on  his  back  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  retreating  form. 

Presently  he  struggled  to  his  feet  and  started  after  the 
child.  The  latter  wandered  in  a  perfunctory  way  toward  his 
home,  stopping  at  times  to  investigate  various  matters.  Dur 
ing  one  of  these  pauses  he  discovered  the  little  dark-brown 
dog  who  was  following  him  with  the  air  of  a  footpad. 

The  child  beat  his  pursuer  with  a  small  stick  he  had 
found.  The  dog  lay  down  and  prayed  until  the  child  had 
finished,  and  resumed  his  journey.  Then  he  scrambled  erect 
and  took  up  the  pursuit  again. 

On  the  way  to  his  home  the  child  turned  many  times  and 
beat  the  dog,  proclaiming  with  childish  gestures  that  he 
held  him  in  contempt  as  an  unimportant  dog,  with  no  value 
save  for  a  moment.  For  being  this  quality  of  animal  the 
dog  apologized  and  eloquently  expressed  regret,  but  he  con- 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG  151 

tinued  stealthily  to  follow  the  child.  His  manner  grew  so 
very  guilty  that  he  slunk  like  an  assassin. 

When  the  child  reached  his  doorstep,  the  dog  was  indus 
triously  ambling  a  few  yards  in  the  rear.  He  became  so 
agitated  with  shame  when  he  again  confronted  the  child  that 
he  forgot  the  dragging  rope.  He  tripped  upon  it  and  fell 
forward. 

The  child  sat  down  on  the  step  and  the  two  had  another 
interview.  During  it  the  dog  greatly  exerted  himself  to 
please  the  child.  He  performed  a  few  gambols  with  such 
abandon  that  the  child  suddenly  saw  him  to  be  a  valuable 
thing.  He  made  a  swift,  avaricious  charge  and  seized  the 
rope. 

He  dragged  his  captive  into  a  hall  and  up  many  long  stair 
ways  in  a  dark  tenement.  The  dog  made  willing  efforts,  but 
he  could  not  hobble  very  skilfully  up  the  stairs  because  he 
was  very  small  and  soft,  and  at  last  the  pace  of  the  en 
grossed  child  grew  so  energetic  that  the  dog  became  panic- 
stricken.  In  his  mind  he  was  being  dragged  toward  a  grim 
unknown.  His  eyes  grew  wild  with  the  terror  of  it.  He 
began  to  wiggle  his  head  frantically  and  to  brace  his  legs. 

The  child  redoubled  his  exertions.  They  had  a  battle  on 
the  stairs.  The  child  was  victorious  because  he  was  com 
pletely  absorbed  in  his  purpose,  and  because  the  dog  was 
very  small.  He  dragged  his  acquirement  to  the  door  of  his 
home,  and  finally  with  triumph  across  the  threshold. 

No  one  was  in.  The  child  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  made 
overtures  to  the  dog.  These  the  dog  instantly  accepted.  He 
beamed  with  affection  upon  his  new  friend.  In  a  short  time 
they  were  firm  and  abiding  comrades. 


152  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

When  the  child's  family  appeared,  they  made  a  great 
row.  The  dog  was  examined  and  commented  upon  and 
called  names.  Scorn  was  leveled  at  him  from  all  eyes,  so 
that  he  became  much  embarrassed  and  drooped  like  a 
scorched  plant.  But  the  child  went  sturdily  to  the  center 
of  the  floor,  and,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  championed  the 
dog.  It  happened  that  he  was  roaring  protestations,  with 
his  arms  clasped  about  the  dog's  neck,  when  the  father  of  the 
family  came  in  from  work. 

The  parent  demanded  to  know  what  the  blazes  they  were 
making  the  kid  howl  for.  It  was  explained  in  many  words 
that  the  infernal  kid  wanted  to  introduce  a  disreputable  dog 
into  the  family. 

A  family  council  was  held.  On  this  depended  the  dog's 
fate,  but  he  in  no  way  heeded,  being  busily  engaged  in 
chewing  the  end  of  the  child's  dress. 

The  affair  was  quickly  ended.  The  father  of  the  family, 
it  appears,  was  in  a  particularly  savage  temper  that  evening, 
and  when  he  perceived  that  it  would  amaze  and  anger  every 
body  if  such  a  dog  were  allowed  to  remain,  he  decided  that 
it  should  be  so.  The  child,  crying  softly,  took  his  friend 
off  to  a  retired  part  of  the  room  to  hobnob  with  him,  while 
the  father  quelled  a  fierce  rebellion  of  his  wife.  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  the  dog  was  a  member  of  the  household. 

He  and  the  child  were  associated  together  at  all  times  save 
when  the  child  slept.  The  child  became  a  guardian  and  a 
friend.  If  the  large  folk  kicked  the  dog  and  threw  things 
at  him,  the  child  made  loud  and  violent  objections.  Once 
when  the  child  had  run,  protesting  loudly,  with  tears  rain 
ing  down  his  face  and  his  arms  outstretched,  to  protect  his 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG  153 

friend,  he  had  been  struck  in  the  head  with  a  very  large 
saucepan  from  the  hand  of  his  father,  enraged  at  some  seem 
ing  lack  of  courtesy  in  the  dog.  Ever  after,  the  family  were 
careful  how  they  threw  things  at  the  dog.  Moreover,  the 
latter  grew  very  skilful  in  avoiding  missiles  and  feet.  In  a 
small  room  containing  a  stove,  a  table,  a  bureau  and  some 
chairs,  he  would  display  strategic  ability  of  a  high  order, 
dodging,  feinting  and  scuttling  about  among  the  furniture. 
He  could  force  three  or  four  people  armed  with  brooms, 
sticks  and  handfuls  of  coal,  to  use  all  their  ingenuity  to  get 
in  a  blow.  And  even  when  they  did,  it  was  seldom  that  they 
could  do  him  a  serious  injury  or  leave  any  imprint. 

But  when  the  child  was  present  these  scenes  did  not  oc 
cur.  It  came  to  be  recognized  that  if  the  dog  was  molested, 
the  child  would  burst  into  sobs,  and  as  the  child,  when 
started,  was  very  riotous  and  practically  unquenchable,  the 
dog  had  therein  a  safeguard. 

However,  the  child  could  not  always  be  near.  At  night, 
when  he  was  asleep,  his  dark-brown  friend  would  raise  from 
some  black  corner  a  wild,  wailful  cry,  a  song  of  infinite  lone 
liness  and  despair,  that  would  go  shuddering  and  sobbing 
among  the  buildings  of  the  block  and  cause  people  to  swear. 
At  these  times  the  singer  would  often  be  chased  all  over  the 
kitchen  and  hit  with  a  great  variety  of  articles. 

Sometimes,  too,  the  child  himself  used  to  beat  the  dog, 
although  it  is  not  known  that  he  ever  had  what  truly  could 
be  called  a  just  cause.  The  dog  always  accepted  these 
thrashings  with  an  air  of  admitted  guilt.  He  was  too  much 
of  a  dog  to  try  to  look  to  be  a  martyr  or  to  plot  revenge.  He 
received  the  blows  with  deep  Humility,  and  furthermore  he 


IS4  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

forgave  his  friend  the  moment  the  child  had  finished,  and  was 
ready  to  caress  the  child's  hand  with  his  little  red  tongue. 

When  misfortune  came  upon  the  child,  and  his  troubles 
overwhelmed  him,  he  would  often  crawl  under  the  table  and 
lay  his  small  distressed  head  on  the  dog's  back.  The  dog  was 
ever  sympathetic.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  at  such 
times  he  took  occasion  to  refer  to  the  unjust  beatings  his 
friend,  when  provoked,  had  administered  to  him. 

He  did  not  achieve  any  notable  degree  of  intimacy  with 
the  other  members  of  the  family.  He  had  no  confidence  in 
them,  and  the  fear  that  he  would  express  at  their  casual  ap 
proach  often  exasperated  them  exceedingly.  They  used  to 
gain  a  certain  satisfaction  in  underfeeding  him,  but  finally 
his  friend  the  child  grew  to  watch  the  matter  with  some  care, 
and  when  he  forgot  it,  the  dog  was  often  successful  in  secret 
for  himself. 

So  the  dog  prospered.  He  developed  a  large  bark,  which 
came  wondrously  from  such  a  small  rug  of  a  dog.  He  ceased 
to  howl  persistently  at  night.  Sometimes,  indeed,  in  his 
sleep,  he  would  utter  little  yells,  as  from  pain,  but  that 
occurred,  no  doubt,  when  in  his  dreams  he  encountered  huge 
flaming  dogs  who  threatened  him  direfully. 

His  devotion  to  the  child  grew  until  it  was  a  sublime 
thing.  He  wagged  at  his  approach;  he  sank  down  in  des 
pair  at  his  departure.  He  could  detect  the  sound  of  the 
child's  step  among  all  the  noises  of  the  neighborhood.  It 
was  like  a  calling  voice  to  him. 

The  scene  of  their  companionship  was  a  kingdom  gov 
erned  by  this  terrible  potentate,  the  child;  but  neither  criti 
cism  nor  rebellion  ever  lived  for  an  instant  in  the  heart  of 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG  155 

the  one  subject.  Down  in  the  mystic,  hidden  fields  of  his 
little  dog-soul  bloomed  flowers  of  love  and  fidelity  and  per 
fect  faith. 

The  child  was  in  the  habit  of  going  on  many  expeditions 
to  observe  strange  things  in  the  vicinity.  On  these  occa 
sions  his  friend  usually  jogged  aimfully  along  behind.  Per 
haps,  though,  he  went  ahead.  This  necessitated  his  turn 
ing  around  every  quarter-minute  to  make  sure  the  child  was 
coming.  He  was  filled  with  a  large  idea  of  the  importance 
of  these  journeys.  He  would  carry  himself  with  such  an  air! 
He  was  proud  to  be  the  retainer  of  so  great  a  monarch. 

One  day,  however,  the  father  of  the  family  got  quite  er 
ceptionally  drunk.  He  came  home  and  held  carnival  with  the 
cooking  utensils,  the  furniture  and  his  wife.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  this  recreation  when  the  child,  followed  by  the  dark- 
brown  dog,  entered  the  room.  They  were  returning  from 
their  voyages. 

The  child's  practised  eye  instantly  noted  his  father's  state. 
He  dived  under  the  table,  where  experience  had  taught  him 
was  a  rather  safe  place.  The  dog,  lacking  skill  in  such  mat 
ters,  was,  of  course,  unaware  of  the  true  condition  of  affairs. 
He  looked  with  interested  eyes  at  his  friend's  sudden  dive. 
He  interpreted  it  to  mean:  Joyous  gambol.  He  started  to 
patter  across  the  floor  to  join  him.  He  was  the  picture  of  a 
little  dark-brown  dog  en  route  to  a  friend. 

The  head  of  the  family  saw  him  at  this  moment.  He 
gave  a  huge  howl  of  joy,  and  knocked  the  dog  down  with 
a  heavy  coffee-pot.  The  dog,  yelling  in  supreme  astonish 
ment  and  fear,  writhed  to  his  feet  and  ran  for  cover.  The 
man  kicked  out  with  a  ponderous  foot.  It  caused  the  dog  to 


156  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

swerve  as  if  caught  in  a  tide.  A  second  blow  of  the  coffee 
pot  laid  him  upon  the  floor. 

Here  the  child,  uttering  loud  cries,  came  valiantly  forth 
like  a  knight.  The  father  of  the  family  paid  no  attention 
to  these  calls  of  the  child,  but  advanced  with  glee  upon  the 
dog.  Upon  being  knocked  down  twice  in  swift  succession, 
the  latter  apparently  gave  up  all  hope  of  escape.  He  rolled 
over  on  his  back  and  held  his  paws  in  a  peculiar  manner.  At 
the  same  time  with  his  eyes  and  his  ears  he  offered  up  a 
small  prayer. 

But  the  father  was  in  a  mood  for  having  fun,  and  it  oc 
curred  to  him  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  throw  the  dog 
out  of  the  window.  So  he  reached  down  and,  grabbing  the 
animal  by  a  leg,  lifted  him,  squirming,  up.  He  swung  him 
two  or  three  times  hilariously  about  his  head,  and  then 
flung  him  with  great  accuracy  through  the  window. 

The  soaring  dog  created  a  surprise  in  the  block.  A  woman 
watering  plants  in  an  opposite  window  gave  an  involuntary 
shout  and  dropped  a  flower-pot.  A  man  in  another  window 
leaned  perilously  out  to  watch  the  flight  of  the  dog.  A  woman 
who  had  been  hanging  out  clothes  in  a  yard  began  to  caper 
wildly.  Her  mouth  was  filled  with  clothes-pins,  but  her 
arms  gave  vent  to  a  sort  of  exclamation.  In  appearance  she 
was  like  a  gagged  prisoner.  Children  ran  whooping. 

The  dark-brown  body  crashed  in  a  heap  on  the  roof  of  a 
shed  five  stories  below.  From  thence  it  rolled  to  the  pave 
ment  of  an  alleyway. 

The  child  in  the  room  far  above  burst  into  a  long,  dirge- 
like  cry,  and  toddled  hastily  out  of  the  room.  It  took  him  a 
long  time  to  reach  the  alley,  because  his  size  compelled  him 


A  DARK-BROWN  DOG  157 

to  go  downstairs  backward,  one  step  at  a  time,  and  holding 
with  both  hands  to  the  step  above. 

When  they  came  for  him  later,  they  found  him  seated  by 
the  body  of  his  dark-brown  friend. 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH 


THE   PACE   OF   YOUTH 


STIMSON  stood  in  a  corner  and  glowered.  He  was  a  fierce 
man  and  had  indomitable  whiskers,  albeit  he  was  very  small. 

"That  young  tarrier,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "He  wants 
to  quit  makin'  eyes  at  Lizzie.  This  is  too  much  of  a  good 
thing.  First  thing  you  know,  he'll  get  fired." 

His  brow  creased  in  a  frown,  he  strode  over  to  the  huge 
open  doors  and  looked  at  a  sign.  "  Stimson 's  Mammoth 
Merry-Go-Round,"  it  read,  and  the  glory  of  it  was  great. 
Stimson  stood  and  contemplated  the  sign.  It  was  an  enor 
mous  affair;  the  letters  were  as  large  as  men.  The  glow  of 
it,  the  grandeur  of  it  was  very  apparent  to  Stimson.  At  the 
end  of  his  contemplation,  he  shook  his  head  thoughtfully, 
determinedly.  "No,  no,"  he  muttered.  "This  is  too  much 
of  a  good  thing.  First  thing  you  know,  he'll  get  fired." 

A  soft  booming  sound  of  surf,  mingled  with  the  cries  of 
bathers,  came  from  the  beach.  There  was  a  vista  of  sand 
and  sky  and  sea  that  drew  to  a  mystic  point  far  away  in 
the  northward.  In  the  mighty  angle,  a  girl  in  a  red  dress 
was  crawling  slowly  like  some  kind  of  a  spider  on  the  fabric 
of  nature.  A  few  flags  hung  lazily  above  where  the  bath 
houses  were  marshalled  in  compact  squares.  Upon  the  edge 
of  the  sea  stood  a  ship  with  its  shadowy  sails  painted  dimly 
upon  the  sky,  and  high  overhead  in  the  still,  sun-shot  air  a 
great  hawk  swung  and  drifted  slowly. 

161 


1 62  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Within  the  Merry-Go-Round  there  was  a  whirling  circle 
of  ornamental  lions,  giraffes,  camels,  ponies,  goats,  glittering 
with  varnish  and  metal  that  caught  swift  reflections  from 
windows  high  above  them.  With  stiff  wooden  legs,  they  swept 
on  in  a  never-ending  race,  while  a  great  orchestrion  clamored 
in  wild  speed.  The  summer  sunlight  sprinkled  its  gold  upon 
the  garnet  canopies  carried  by  the  tireless  racers  and  upon 
all  the  devices  of  decoration  that  made  Stimson's  machine 
magnificent  and  famous.  A  host  of  laughing  children  be 
strode  the  animals,  bending  forward  like  charging  cavalry 
men,  and  shaking  reins  and  whooping  in  glee.  At  intervals 
they  leaned  out  perilously  to  clutch  at  iron  rings  that  were 
tendered  to  them  by  a  long  wooden  arm.  At  the  intense 
moment  before  the  swift  grab  for  the  rings  one  could  see 
their  little  nervous  bodies  quiver  with  eagerness;  the  laugh 
ter  rang  shrill  and  excited.  Down  in  the  long  rows  of 
benches,  crowds  of  people  sat  watching  the  game,  while  occa 
sionally  a  father  might  arise  and  go  near  to  shout  encourage 
ment,  cautionary  commands,  or  applause  at  his  flying  off 
spring.  Frequently  mothers  called  out:  "Be  careful,  Geor- 
gie!"  The  orchestrion  bellowed  and  thundered  on  its  plat 
form,  filling  the  ears  with  its  long  monotonous  song.  Over 
in  a  corner,  a  man  in  a  white  apron  and  behind  a  counter 
roared  above  the  tumult:  "Popcorn!  Popcorn!" 

A  young  man  stood  upon  a  small,  raised  platform,  erected 
in  a  manner  of  a  pulpit,  and  just  without  the  line  of  the 
circling  figures.  It  was  his  duty  to  manipulate  the  wooden 
arm  and  affix  the  rings.  When  all  were  gone  into  the  hands 
of  the  triumphant  children,  he  held  forth  a  basket,  into 
which  they  returned  all  save  the  coveted  brass  one,  which 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  163 

meant  another  ride  free  and  made  the  holder  very  illustrious. 
The  young  man  stood  all  day  upon  his  narrow  platform,  affix 
ing  rings  or  holding  forth  the  basket.  He  was  a  sort  of  gen 
eral  squire  in  these  lists  of  childhood.  He  was  very  busy. 

And  yet  Stimson,  the  astute,  had  noticed  that  the  young 
man  frequently  found  time  to  twist  about  on  his  platform 
and  smile  at  a  girl  who  shyly  sold  tickets  behind  a  silvered 
netting.  This,  indeed,  was  the  great  reason  of  Stimson's 
glowering.  The  young  man  upon  the  raised  platform  had 
no  manner  of  license  to  smile  at  the  girl  behind  the  silvered 
netting.  It  was  a  most  gigantic  insolence.  Stimson  was 
amazed  at  it.  "By  Jiminy,"  he  said  to  himself  again,  "that 
fellow  is  smiling  at  my  daughter."  Even  in  this  tone  of 
great  wrath  it  could  be  discerned  that  Stimson  was  filled  with 
wonder  that  any  youth  should  dare  smile  at  the  daughter 
in  the  presence  of  the  august  father. 

Often  the  dark-eyed  girl  peered  between  the  shining  wires, 
and,  upon  being  detected  by  the  young  man,  she  usually 
turned  her  head  quickly  to  prove  to  him  that  she  was  not 
interested.  At  other  times,  however,  her  eyes  seemed  filled 
with  a  tender  fear  lest  he  should  fall  from  that  exceedingly 
dangerous  platform.  As  for  the  young  man,  it  was  plain 
that  these  glances  filled  him  with  valor,  and  he  stood  care 
lessly  upon  his  perch,  as  if  he  deemed  it  of  no  consequence 
that  he  might  fall  from  it.  In  all  the  complexities  of  his 
daily  life  and  duties  he  found  opportunity  to  gaze  ardently 
at  the  vision  behind  the  netting. 

This  silent  courtship  was  conducted  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd  who  thronged  about  the  bright  machine.  The  swift 
eloquent  glances  of  the  young  man  went  noiselessly  and 


1 64  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

unseen  with  their  message.  There  had  finally  become  estab 
lished  between  the  two  in  this  manner  a  subtle  understand 
ing  and  companionship.  They  communicated  accurately  all 
that  they  felt.  The  boy  told  his  love,  his  reverence,  his 
hope  in  the  changes  of  the  future.  The  girl  told  him  that 
she  loved  him,  and  she  did  not  love  him,  that  she  did  not 
know  if  she  loved  him.  Sometimes  a  little  sign  saying 
"cashier"  in  gold  letters,  and  hanging  upon  the  silvered  net 
ting,  got  directly  in  range  and  interfered  with  the  tender 
message. 

The  love  affair  had  not  continued  without  anger,  unhar> 
piness,  despair.  The  girl  had  once  smiled  brightly  upon 
a  youth  who  came  to  buy  some  tickets  for  his  little  sister, 
and  the  young  man  upon  the  platform,  observing  this  smile, 
had  been  filled  with  gloomy  rage.  He  stood  like  a  dark 
statue  of  vengeance  upon  his  pedestal  and  thrust  out  the 
basket  to  the  children  with  a  gesture  that  was  full  of  scorn 
for  their  hollow  happiness,  for  their  insecure  and  temporary 
joy.  For  five  hours  he  did  not  once  look  at  the  girl  when 
she  was  looking  at  him.  He  was  going  to  crush  her  with  his 
indifference;  he  was  going  to  demonstrate  that  he  had  never 
been  serious.  However,  when  he  narrowly  observed  her  in 
secret  he  discovered  that  she  seemed  more  blythe  than  was 
usual  with  her.  When  he  found  that  his  apparent  indiffer 
ence  had  not  crushed  her  he  suffered  greatly.  She  did  not 
love  him,  he  concluded.  If  she  had  loved  him  she  would  have 
been  crushed.  For  two  days  he  lived  a  miserable  exist 
ence  upon  his  high  perch.  He  consoled  himself  by  thinking 
of  how  unhappy  he  was,  and  by  swift,  furtive  glances  at  the 
loved  face.  At  any  rate  he  was  in  her  presence,  and  he 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  165 

could  get  a  good  view  from  his  perch  when  there  was  no 
interference  by  the  little  sign:  "Cashier." 

But  suddenly,  swiftly,  these  clouds  vanished,  and  under 
the  imperial  blue  sky  of  the  restored  confidence  they  dwelt 
in  peace,  a  peace  that  was  satisfaction,  a  peace  that,  like  a 
babe,  put  its  trust  in  the  treachery  of  the  future.  This  con 
fidence  endured  until  the  next  day,  when  she,  for  an  un 
known  cause,  suddenly  refused  to  look  at  him.  Mechani 
cally  he  continued  his  task,  his  brain  dazed,  a  tortured  vic 
tim  of  doubt,  fear,  suspicion.  With  his  eyes  he  supplicated 
her  to  telegraph  an  explanation.  She  replied  with  a  stony 
glance  that  froze  his  blood.  There  was  a  great  difference  in 
their  respective  reasons  for  becoming  angry.  His  were  al 
ways  foolish,  but  apparent,  plain  as  the  moon.  Hers  were 
subtle,  feminine,  as  incomprehensible  as  the  stars,  as  mys 
terious  as  the  shadows  at  night. 

They  fell  and  soared  and  soared  and  fell  in  this  manner 
until  they  knew  that  to  live  without  each  other  would  be  a 
wandering  in  deserts.  They  had  grown  so  intent  upon  'the 
uncertainties,  the  variations,  the  guessings  of  their  affair  that 
the  world  had  become  but  a  huge  immaterial  background. 
In  time  of  peace  their  smiles  were  soft  and  prayerful,  ca 
resses  confided  to  the  air.  In  time  of  war,  their  youthful 
hearts,  capable  of  profound  agony,  were  wrung  by  the  intri 
cate  emotions  of  doubt.  They  were  the  victims  of  the  dread 
angel  of  affectionate  speculation  that  forces  the  brain  end 
lessly  on  roads  that  lead  nowhere. 

At  night,  the  problem  of  whether  she  loved  him  confronted 
the  young  man  like  a  spectre,  looming  as  high  as  a  hill  and 
telling  him  not  to  delude  himself.  Upon  tne  following  day, 


1 66  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

this  battle  of  the  night  displayed  itself  in  the  renewed  fer 
vor  of  his  glances  and  in  their  increased  number.  When 
ever  he  thought  he  could  detect  that  she  too  was  suffering, 
he  felt  a  thrill  of  joy. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  the  young  man  looked  back 
upon  these  contortions  with  contempt.  He  believed  then 
that  he  had  imagined  his  pain.  This  came  about  when  the 
redoubtable  Stimson  marched  forward  to  participate. 

"This  has  got  to  stop,"  Stimson  had  said  to  himself,  as 
he  stood  and  watched  them.  They  had  grown  careless  of 
the  light  world  that  clattered  about  them;  they  were  become 
so  engrossed  in  their  personal  drama  that  the  language  of 
their  eyes  was  almost  as  obvious  as  gestures.  And  Stimson, 
through  his  keenness,  his  wonderful,  infallible  penetration, 
suddenly  came  into  possession  of  these  obvious  facts.  "Well, 
of  all  the  nerves,"  he  said,  regarding  with  a  new  interest  the 
young  man  upon  the  perch. 

He  was  a  resolute  man.  He  never  hesitated  to  grapple 
with  a  crisis.  He  decided  to  overturn  everything  at  once, 
for,  although  small,  he  was  very  fierce  and  impetuous.  He 
resolved  to  crush  this  dreaming. 

He  strode  over  to  the  silvered  netting.  "Say,  you  want 
to  quit  your  everlasting  grinning  at  that  idiot,"  he  said, 
grimly. 

The  girl  cast  down  her  eyes  and  made  a  little  heap  of 
quarters  into  a  stack.  She  was  unable  to  withstand  the  ter 
rible  scrutiny  of  her  small  and  fierce  father. 

Stimson  turned  from  his  daughter  and  went  to  a  spot  be 
neath  the  platform.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  young  man 
and  said — 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  167 

"I've  been  speakin'  to  Lizzie.  You  better  attend  strictly 
to  your  own  business  or  there'll  be  a  new  man  here  next 
week."  It  was  as  if  he  had  blazed  away  with  a  shotgun. 
The  young  man  reeled  upon  his  perch.  At  last  he  in  a 
measure  regained  his  composure  and  managed  to  stammer: 
"A — all  right,  sir."  He  knew  that  denials  would  be  futile 
with  the  terrible  Stimson.  He  agitatedly  began  to  rattle  the 
rings  in  the  basket,  and  pretend  that  he  was  obliged  to  count 
them  or  inspect  them  in  some  way.  He,  too,  was  unable 
to  face  the  great  Stimson. 

For  a  moment,  Stimson  stood  in  fine  satisfaction  and 
gloated  over  the  effect  of  his  threat. 

"I've  fixed  them,"  he  said  complacently,  and  went  out  to 
smoke  a  cigar  and  revel  in  himself.  Through  his  mind  went 
the  proud  reflection  that  people  who  came  in  contact  with 
his  granite  will  usually  ended  in  quick  and  abject  submis 
sion. 


II 


ONE  evening,  a  week  after  Stimson  had  indulged  in  the 
proud  reflection  that  people  who  came  in  contact  with  his 
granite  will  usually  ended  in  quick  and  abject  submission,  a 
young  feminine  friend  of  the  girl  behind  the  silvered  netting 
came  to  her  there  and  asked  her  to  walk  on  the  beach  after 
"Stimson's  Mammoth  Merry-Go-Round"  was  closed  for  the 
night.  The  girl  assented  with  a  nod. 

The  young  man  upon  the  perch  holding  the  rings  saw  this 
nod  and  judged  its  meaning.  Into  his  mind  came  an  idea 
of  defeating  the  watchfulness  of  the  redoubtable  Stimson. 


1 68  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

When  the  Merry-Go-Round  was  closed  and  the  two  girls 
started  for  the  beach,  he  wandered  off  aimlessly  in  another 
direction,  but  he  kept  them  in  view,  and  as  soon  as  he  was 
assured  that  he  had  escaped  the  vigilance  of  Stimson,  he 
followed  them. 

The  electric  lights  on  the  beach  made  a  broad  band  of 
tremoring  light,  extending  parallel  to  the  sea,  and  upon  the 
wide  walk  there  slowly  paraded  a  great  crowd,  intermingling, 
interwining,  sometimes  colliding.  In  the  darkness  stretched 
the  vast  purple  expanse  of  the  ocean,  and  the  deep  indigo 
sky  above  was  peopled  with  yellow  stars.  Occasionally  out 
upon  the  water  a  whirling  mass  of  froth  suddenly  flashed 
into  view,  like  a  great  ghostly  robe  appearing,  and  then 
vanished,  leaving  the  sea  in  its  darkness,  whence  came 
those  bass  tones  of  the  water's  unknown  emotion.  A  wind, 
cool,  reminiscent  of  the  wave  wastes,  made  the  women  hold 
their  wraps  about  their  throats,  and  caused  the  men  to  grip 
the  rims  of  their  straw  hats.  It  carried  the  noise  of  the 
band  in  the  pavilion  in  gusts.  Sometimes  people  unable  to 
hear  the  music  glanced  up  at  the  pavilion  and  were  reas 
sured  upon  beholding  the  distant  leader  still  gesticulating  and 
bobbing,  and  the  other  members  of  the  band  with  their  lips 
glued  to  their  instruments.  High  in  the  sky  soared  an  unas 
suming  moon,  faintly  silver. 

For  a  time  the  young  man  was  afraid  to  approach  the  two 
girls;  he  followed  them  at  a  distance  and  called  himself  a 
coward.  At  last,  however,  he  saw  them  stop  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  crowd  and  stand  silently  listening  to  the  voices 
of  the  sea.  When  he  came  to  where  they  stood,  he  was 
trembling  in  his  agitation.  They  had  not  seen  him. 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  169 


"Lizzie,"  he  began.    "I 

The  girl  wheeled  instantly  and  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Oh,  Frank,  how  you  frightened  me,"  she  said — inevitably. 

"Well,  you  know,  I— I "  he  stuttered. 

But  the  other  girl  was  one  of  those  beings  who  are  born 
to  attend  at  tragedies.  She  had  for  love  a  reverence,  an  ad 
miration  that  was  greater  the  more  that  she  contemplated 
the  fact  that  she  knew  nothing  of  it.  This  couple,  with 
their  emotions,  awed  her  and  made  her  humbly  wish  that 
she  might  be  destined  to  be  of  some  service  to  them.  She 
was  very  homely. 

When  the  young  man  faltered  before  them,  she,  in  her 
sympathy,  actually  over-estimated  the  crisis,  and  felt  that 
he  might  fall  dying  at  their  feet.  Shyly,  but  with  courage, 
she  marched  to  the  rescue. 

"Won't  you  come  and  walk  on  the  beach  with  us?"  she 
said. 

The  young  man  gave  her  a  glance  of  deep  gratitude  which 
was  not  without  the  patronage  which  a  man  in  his  condition 
naturally  feels  for  one  who  pities  it.  The  three  walked  on. 

Finally,  the  being  who  was  born  to  attend  at  this  tragedy 
said  that  she  wished  to  sit  down  and  gaze  at  the  sea,  alone. 

They  politely  urged  her  to  walk  on  with  them,  but  she 
was  obstinate.  She  wished  to  gaze  at  the  sea,  alone.  The 
young  man  swore  to  himself  that  he  would  be  her  friend 
until  he  died. 

And  so  the  two  young  lovers  went  on  without  her.  They 
turned  once  to  look  at  her. 

"Jennie's  awful  nice,"  said  the  girl. 

"You  bet  she  is,"  replied  the  young  man,  ardently. 


1 70  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  time. 

At  last  the  girl  said — 

"You  were  angry  at  me  yesterday." 

"No,  I  wasn't." 

"Yes,  you  were,  too.  You  wouldn't  look  at  me  once  all 
day." 

"No,  I  wasn't  angry.     I  was  only  putting  on." 

Though  she  had,  of  course,  known  it,  this  confession 
seemed  to  make  her  very  indignant.  She  flashed  a  resent 
ful  glance  at  him. 

"Oh,  you  were,  indeed?"  she  said  with  a  great  air. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  was  so  haughty  with  him  that  he 
loved  her  to  madness.  And  directly  this  poem,  which  stuck 
at  his  lips,  came  forth  lamely  in  fragments. 

When  they  walked  back  toward  the  other  girl  and  saw 
the  patience  of  her  attitude,  their  hearts  swelled  in  a  patron 
izing  and  secondary  tenderness  for  her. 

They  were  very  happy.  If  they  had  been  miserable  they 
would  have  charged  this  fairy  scene  of  the  night  with  a 
criminal  heartlessness;  but  as  they  were  joyous,  they  vaguely 
wondered  how  the  purple  sea,  the  yellow  stars,  the  changing 
crowds  under  the  electric  lights  could  be  so  phlegmatic  and 
stolid. 

They  walked  home  by  the  lakeside  way,  and  out  upon 
the  water  those  gay  paper  lanterns,  flashing,  fleeting,  and 
careering,  sang  to  them,  sang  a  chorus  of  red  and  violet,  and 
green  and  gold;  a  song  of  mystic  bands  of  the  future. 

One  day,  when  business  paused  during  a  dull  sultry  after 
noon,  Stimson  went  up  town.  Upon  his  return,  he  found 
that  the  popcorn  man,  from  his  stand  over  in  a  corner,  was 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  171 

keeping  an  eye  upon  the  cashier's  cage,  and  that  nobody  at 
all  was  attending  to  the  wooden  arm  and  the  iron  rings. 
He  strode  forward  like  a  sergeant  of  grenadiers. 

"Where  in  thunder  is  Lizzie?"  he  demanded,  a  cloud  of 
rage  in  his  eyes. 

The  popcorn  man,  although  associated  long  with  Stim- 
son,  had  never  got  over  being  dazed. 

"They've — they've — gone  round  to  th' — th' — house,"  he 
said  with  difficulty,  as  if  he  had  just  been  stunned. 

"Whose  house?"  snapped  Stimson. 

"Your — your  house,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  popcorn  man. 

Stimson  marched  round  to  his  home.  Kingly  denuncia 
tions  surged,  already  formulated,  to  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
and  he  bided  the  moment  when  his  anger  could  fall  upon 
the  heads  of  that  pair  of  children.  He  found  his  wife  con 
vulsive  and  in  tears. 

"Where's  Lizzie?" 

And  then  she  burst  forth — "Oh — John — John — they've 
run  away,  I  know  they  have.  They  drove  by  here  not  three 
minutes  ago.  They  must  have  done  it  on  purpose  to  bid  me 
good-bye,  for  Lizzie  waved  her  hand  sadlike,  and  then,  be 
fore  I  could  get  out  to  ask  where  they  were  going  or  what, 
Frank  whipped  up  the  horse." 

Stimson  gave  vent  to  a  dreadful  roar. 

"Get  my  revolver — get  a  hack — get  my  revolver,  do  you 
hear — what  the  devil "  His  voice  became  incoherent. 

He  had  always  ordered  his  wife  about  as  if  she  were  a 
battalion  of  infantry,  and  despite  her  misery,  the  training  of 
years  forced  her  to  spring  mechanically  to  obey;  bu* 
denly  she  turned  to  him  with  a  shrill  appeal. 


I72  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

"Oh,  John — not — the — revolver." 

"Confound  it,  let  go  of  me!"  he  roared  again,  and  shook 
her  from  him. 

He  ran  hatless  upon  the  street.  There  were  a  multitude 
of  hacks  at  the  summer  resort,  but  it  was  ages  to  him  before 
he  could  find  one.  Then  he  charged  it  like  a  bull. 

"Uptown!"  he  yelled,  as  he  tumbled  into  the  rear  seat. 

The  hackman  thought  of  severed  arteries.  His  galloping 
horse  distanced  a  large  number  of  citizens  who  had  been 
running  to  find  what  caused  such  contortions  by  the  little 
hatless  man. 

It  chanced  as  the  bouncing  hack  went  along  near  the  lake, 
Stimson  gazed  across  the  calm  grey  expanse  and  recognized 
a  color  in  a  bonnet  and  a  pose  of  a  head.  A  buggy  was 
traveling  along  a  highway  that  led  to  Sorington.  Stim 
son  bellowed — "There — there — there  they  are — in  that 
buggy." 

The  hackman  became  inspired  with  the  full  knowledge  of 
the  situation.  He  struck  a  delirious  blow  with  the  whip. 
His  mouth  expanded  in  a  grin  of  excitement  and  joy.  It 
came  to  pass  that  this  old  vehicle,  with  its  drowsy  horse  and 
its  dusty-eyed  and  tranquil  driver,  seemed  suddenly  to 
awaken,  to  become  animated  and  fleet.  The  horse  ceased 
to  ruminate  on  his  state,  his  air  of  reflection  vanished.  He 
became  intent  upon  his  aged  legs  and  spread  them  in  quaint 
and  ridiculous  devices  for  speed.  The  driver,  his  eyes  shin 
ing,  sat  critically  in  his  seat.  He  watched  each  motion  of 
this  rattling  machine  down  before  him.  He  resembled  an 
engineer .  He  used  the  whip  with  judgment  and  deliberation 
as  the  engineer  would  have  used  coal  or  oil.  The  horse 


THE  PACE  OF  YOUTH  173 

clacked  swiftly  upon  the  macadam,  the  wheels  hummed,  the 
body  of  the  vehicle  wheezed  and  groaned. 

Stimson,  in  the  rear  seat,  was  erect  in  that  impassive  at 
titude  that  comes  sometimes  to  the  furious  man  when  he  is 
obliged  to  leave  the  battle  to  others.  Frequently,  however, 
the  tempest  in  his  breast  came  to  his  face  and  he 
howled — 

"Go  it — go  it — you're  gaining;  pound  'im!  Thump  the 
life  out  of  'im;  hit  'im  hard,  you  fool!"  His  hand  grasped 
the  rod  that  supported  the  carriage  top,  and  it  was  clenched 
so  that  the  nails  were  faintly  blue. 

Ahead,  that  other  carriage  had  been  flying  with  speed,  as 
from  realization  of  the  menace  in  the  rear.  It  bowled  away 
rapidly,  drawn  by  the  eager  spirit  of  a  young  and  modern 
horse.  Stimson  could  see  the  buggy-top  bobbing,  bobbing. 
That  little  pane,  like  an  eye,  was  a  derision  to  him.  Once 
he  leaned  forward  and  bawled  angry  sentences.  He  began 
to  feel  impotent;  his  whole  expedition  was  a  tottering  of  an 
old  man  upon  a  trail  of  birds.  A  sense  of  age  made  him 
choke  again  with  wrath.  That  other  vehicle,  that  was  youth, 
with  youth's  pace;  it  was  swift-flying  with  the  hope  of 
dreams.  He  began  to  comprehend  those  two  children  ahead 
of  him,  and  he  knew  a  sudden  and  strange  awe,  because  he 
understood  the  power  of  their  young  blood,  the  power  to 
fly  strongly  into  the  future  and  feel  and  hope  again,  even  at 
that  time  when  his  bones  must  be  laid  in  the  earth.  The  dust 
rose  easily  from  the  hot  road  and  stifled  the  nostrils  of 
Stimson. 

The  highway  vanished  far  away  in  a  point  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  intolerable  length.  The  other  vehicle  was  becom- 


i74  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

ing  so  small  that  Stimson  could  no  longer  see  the  derisive 
eye. 

At  last  the  hackman  drew  rein  to  his  horse  and  turned  to 
look  at  Stimson. 

"No  use,  I  guess,"  he  said. 

Stimson  made  a  gesture  of  acquiescence,  rage,  despair.  As 
the  hackman  turned  his  dripping  horse  about,  Stimson  sank 
back  with  the  astonishment  and  grief  of  a  man  who  has  been 
defied  by  the  universe.  He  had  been  in  a  great  perspiration, 
and  now  his  bald  head  felt  cool  and  uncomfortable.  He  put 
up  his  hand  with  a  sudden  recollection  that  he  had  forgotten 
his  hat. 

At  last  he  made  a  gesture.  It  meant  that  at  any  rate  he 
was  not  responsible. 


A  TENT  IN  AGONY 


A  TENT  IN  AGONY 

A  SULLIVAN  COUNTY  TALE 

FOUR  men  once  came  to  a  wet  place  in  the  roadless  forest 
to  fish.  They  pitched  their  tent  fair  upon  the  brow  of  a 
pine-clothed  ridge  of  riven  rocks  whence  a  bowlder  could  be 
made  to  crash  through  the  brush  and  whirl  past  the  trees  to 
the  lake  below.  On  fragrant  hemlock  boughs  they  slept  the 
sleep  of  unsuccessful  fishermen,  for  upon  the  lake  alternately 
the  sun  made  them  lazy  and  the  rain  made  them  wet.  Fi 
nally  they  ate  the  last  bit  of  bacon  and  smoked  and  burned 
the  last  fearful  and  wonderful  hoecake. 

Immediately  a  little  man  volunteered  to  stay  and  hold  the 
camp  while  the  remaining  three  should  go  the  Sullivan  county 
miles  to  a  farmhouse  for  supplies.  They  gazed  at  him  dis 
mally.  "There's  only  one  of  you — the  devil  make  a  twin," 
they  said  in  parting  malediction,  and  disappeared  down  the 
hill  in  the  known  direction  of  a  distant  cabin.  When  it  came 
night  and  the  hemlocks  began  to  sob  they  had  not  returned. 
The  little  man  sat  close  to  his  companion,  the  campfire,  and 
encouraged  it  with  logs.  He  puffed  fiercely  at  a  heavy  built 
brier,  and  regarded  a  thousand  shadows  which  were  about 
to  assault  him.  Suddenly  he  heard  the  approach  of  the 
unknown,  crackling  the  twigs  and  rustling  the  dead  leaves. 
The  little  man  arose  slowly  to  his  feet,  his  clothes  refused 
to  fit  his  back,  his  pipe  dropped  from  his  mouth,  his  knees 

177 


178  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

smote  each  other.  "Hah!"  he  bellowed  hoarsely  in  menace. 
A  growl  replied  and  a  bear  paced  into  the  light  of  the  fire. 
The  little  man  supported  himself  upon  a  sapling  and  regarded 
his  visitor. 

The  bear  was  evidently  a  veteran  and  a  fighter,  for  the 
black  of  his  coat  had  become  tawny  with  age.  There  was 
confidence  in  his  gait  and  arrogance  in  his  small,  twinkling 
eye.  He  rolled  back  his  lips  and  disclosed  his  white  teeth. 
The  fire  magnified  the  red  of  his  mouth.  The  little  man  had 
never  before  confronted  the  terrible  and  he  could  not  wrest 
it  from  his  breast.  "Hah!"  he  roared.  The  bear  interpreted 
this  as  the  challenge  of  a  gladiator.  He  approached  warily. 
As  he  came  near,  the  boots  of  fear  were  suddenly  upon  the 
little  man's  feet.  He  cried  out  and  then  darted  around  the 
campfire.  "Ho!"  said  the  bear  to  himself,  "this  thing  won't 
fight — it  runs.  Well,  suppose  I  catch  it."  So  upon  his  fea 
tures  there  fixed  the  animal  look  of  going — somewhere.  He 
started  intensely  around  the  campfire.  The  little  man 
shrieked  and  ran  furiously.  Twice  around  they  went. 

The  hand  of  heaven  sometimes  falls  heavily  upon  the 
righteous.  The  bear  gained. 

In  desperation  the  little  man  flew  into  the  tent.  The 
bear  stopped  and  sniffed  at  the  entrance.  He  scented  the 
scent  of  many  men.  Finally  he  ventured  in. 

The  little  man  crouched  in  a  distant  corner.  The  bear  ad 
vanced,  creeping,  his  blood  burning,  his  hair  erect,  his  jowls 
dripping.  The  little  man  yelled  and  rustled  clumsily  under 
the  flap  at  the  end  of  the  tent.  The  bear  snarled  awfully 
and  made  a  jump  and  a  grab  at  his  disappearing  game.  The 
little  man,  now  without  the  tent,  felt  a  tremendous  paw 


A  TENT  IN  AGONY  179 

grab  his  coat  tails.  He  squirmed  and  wriggled  out  of  his 
coat  like  a  schoolboy  in  the  hands  of  an  avenger.  The  bear 
howled  triumphantly  and  jerked  the  coat  into  the  tent  and 
took  two  bites,  a  punch  and  a  hug  before  he  discovered  his 
man  was  not  in  it.  Then  he  grew  not  very  angry,  for  a  bear 
on  a  spree  is  not  a  black-haired  pirate.  He  is  merely  a 
hoodlum.  He  lay  down  on  his  back,  took  the  coat  on  his 
four  paws  and  began  to  play  uproariously  with  it.  The  most 
appalling,  blood-curdling  whoops  and  yells  came  to  where 
the  little  man  was  crying  in  a  treetop  and  froze  his  blood. 
He  moaned  a  little  speech  meant  for  a  prayer  and  clung 
convulsively  to  the  bending  branches.  He  gazed  with  tear 
ful  wistfulness  at  where  his  comrade,  the  campfire,  was  giv 
ing  dying  flickers  and  crackles.  Finally,  there  was  a  roar 
from  the  tent  which  eclipsed  all  roars;  a  snarl  which  it 
seemed  would  shake  the  stolid  silence  of  the  mountain  and 
cause  it  to  shrug  its  granite  shoulders.  The  little  man 
quaked  and  shrivelled  to  a  grip  and  a  pair  of  eyes.  In  the 
glow  of  the  embers  he  saw  the  white  tent  quiver  and  fall 
with  a  crash.  The  bear's  merry  play  had  disturbed  the  center 
pole  and  brought  a  chaos  of  canvas  upon  his  head. 

Now  the  Mttle  man  became  the  witness  of  a  mighty  scene. 
The  tent  began  to  flounder.  It  took  flopping  strides  in  the 
direction  of  the  lake.  Marvellous  sounds  came  from  within 
— rips  and  tears,  and  great  groans  and  pants.  The  little  mar> 
went  into  giggling  hysterics. 

The  entangled  monster  failed  to  extricate  himself  before 
he  had  walloped  the  tent  frenziedly  to  the  edge  of  the  moun 
tain.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  three  men,  clambering  up  the 
hill  with  bundles  and  baskets,  saw  their  tent  approaching. 


i8o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

It  seemed  to  them  like  a  white-robed  phantom  pursued  by 
hornets.  Its  moans  riffled  the  hemlock  twigs. 

The  three  men  dropped  their  bundles  and  scurried  to  one 
side,  their  eyes  gleaming  with  fear.  The  canvas  avalanche 
swept  past  them.  They  leaned,  faint  and  dumb,  against  trees 
and  listened,  their  blood  stagnant.  Below  them  it  struck  the 
base  of  a  great  pine  tree,  where  it  writhed  and  struggled.  The 
three  watched  its  convolutions  a  moment  and  then  started 
terrifically  for  the  top  of  the  hill.  As  they  disappeared,  the 
bear  cut  loose  with  a  mighty  effort.  He  cast  one  dishevelled 
and  agonized  look  at  the  white  thing,  and  then  started  wildly 
for  the  inner  recesses  of  the  forest. 

The  three  fear-stricken  individuals  ran  to  the  rebuilt  fire. 
The  little  man  reposed  by  it  calmly  smoking.  They  sprang 
at  him  and  overwhelmed  him  with  interrogations.  He  con 
templated  darkness  and  took  a  long,  pompous  puff.  "There's 
only  one  of  me — and  the  devil  made  a  twin,"  he  said. 


FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE 


FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE 

LIKEWISE  FOUR  QUEENS,  AND  A  SULLIVAN   COUNTY 
HERMIT 

THE  moon  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  top  of  a  tall  pin* 
on  a  hill. 

The  little  man  was  standing  in  front  of  the  campfire  mak' 
ing  orations  to  his  companions. 

"We  can  tell  a  great  tale  when  we  get  back  to  the  city 
if  we  investigate  this  thing,"  said  he,  in  conclusion. 

They  were  won. 

The  little  man  was  determined  to  explore  a  cave,  because 
its  black  mouth  had  gaped  at  him.  The  four  men  took  a 
lighted  pine-knot  and  clambered  over  boulders  down  a  hill. 
In  a  thicket  on  the  mountainside  lay  a  little  tilted  hole.  At 
its  side  they  halted. 

"Well?"  said  the  little  man. 

They  fought  for  last  place  and  the  little  man  was  over 
whelmed.  He  tried  to  struggle  from  under  by  crying  that 
if  the  fat,  pudgy  man  came  after,  he  would  be  corked.  But 
he  finally  administered  a  cursing  over  his  shoulder  and 
crawled  into  the  hole.  His  companions  gingerly  followed. 

A  passage,  the  floor  of  damp  clay  and  pebbles,  the  walls 
slimy,  green-mossed,  and  dripping,  sloped  downward.  In  the 

183 


184  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

cave  atmosphere  the  torches  became  studies  in  red  blaze  and 
black  smoke. 

"Ho!"  cried  the  little  man,  stifled  and  bedraggled,  "let's 
go  back."  His  companions  were  not  brave.  They  were  last. 
The  next  one  to  the  little  man  pushed  him  on,  so  the  little 
man  said  sulphurous  words  and  cautiously  continued  his 
crawl. 

Things  that  hung  seemed  to  be  on  the  wet,  uneven  ceiling, 
ready  to  drop  upon  the  men's  bare  necks.  Under  their 
hands  the  clammy  floor  seemed  alive  and  writhing.  When 
the  little  man  endeavored  to  stand  erect  the  ceiling  forced 
him  down.  Knobs  and  points  came  out  and  punched  him. 
His  clothes  were  wet  and  mud-covered,  and  his  eyes,  nearly 
blinded  by  smoke,  tried  to  pierce  the  darkness  always  before 
his  torch. 

"Oh,  I  say,  you  fellows,  let's  go  back,"  cried  he.  At  that 
moment  he  caught  the  gleam  of  trembling  light  in  the  blurred 
shadows  before  him. 

"Ho!"  he  said,  "here's  another  way  out." 

The  passage  turned  abruptly.  The  little  man  put  one 
hand  around  the  corner,  but  it  touched  nothing.  He  investi 
gated  and  discovered  that  the  little  corridor  took  a  sudden 
dip  down  a  hill.  At  the  bottom  shone  a  yellow  light. 

The  little  man  wriggled  painfully  about,  and  descended 
feet  in  advance.  The  others  followed  his  plan.  All  picked 
their  way  with  anxious  care.  The  traitorous  rocks  rolled 
from  beneath  the  little  man's  feet  and  roared  thunderously 
below  him,  lesser  stone  loosened  by  the  men  above  him,  hit 
him  on  the  back.  He  gained  seemingly  firm  foothold,  and, 
turning  halfway  about,  swore  redly  at  his  companions  for 


FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE  185 

dolts  and  careless  fools.  The  pudgy  man  sat,  puffing  and 
perspiring,  high  in  the  rear  of  the  procession.  The  fumes 
and  smoke  from  four  pine-knots  were  in  his  blood.  Cinders 
and  sparks  lay  thick  in  his  eyes  and  hair.  The  pause  of  the 
little  man  angered  him. 

"Go  on,  you  fool!"  he  shouted.  "Poor,  painted  man,  you 
are  afraid." 

"Ho!"  said  the  little  man.  "Come  down  here  and  go  on 
yourself,  imbecile!" 

The  pudgy  man  vibrated  with  passion.  He  leaned  down 
ward.  "Idiot " 

He  was  interrupted  by  one  of  his  feet  which  flew  out  and 
crashed  into  the  man  in  front  of  and  below.  It  is  not  well 
to  quarrel  upon  a  slippery  incline,  when  the  unknown  is 
below.  The  fat  man,  having  lost  the  support  of  one  pillar- 
like  foot,  lurched  forward.  His  body  smote  the  next  man, 
who  hurtled  into  the  next  man.  Then  they  all  fell  upon  the 
cursing  little  man. 

They  slid  in  a  body  down  over  the  slippery,  slimy  floor 
of  the  passage.  The  stone  avenue  must  have  wibble-wobbled 
with  the  rush  of  this  ball  of  tangled  men  and  strangled  cries. 
The  torches  went  out  with  the  combined  assault  upon  the 
little  man.  The  adventurers  whirled  to  the  unknown  in 
darkness.  The  little  man  felt  that  he  was  pitching  to  death, 
but  even  in  his  convolutions  he  bit  and  scratched  at  his  com 
panions,  for  he  was  satisfied  that  it  was  their  fault.  The 
swirling  mass  went  some  twenty  feet,  and  lit  upon  a  level, 
dry  place  in  a  strong,  yellow  light  of  candles.  It  dissolved 
and  became  eyes. 

The  four  men  lay  hi  a  heap  upon  the  floor  of  a  grey 


i86  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

chamber.  A  small  fire  smoldered  in  the  comer,  the  smoke 
disappearing  in  a  crack.  In  another  corner  was  a  bed  of 
faded  hemlock  boughs  and  two  blankets.  Cooking  utensils 
and  clothes  lay  about,  with  boxes  and  a  barrel. 

Of  these  things  the  four  men  took  small  cognisance.  The 
pudgy  man  did  not  curse  the  little  man,  nor  did  the  little 
man  swear,  in  the  abstract.  Eight  widened  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  center  of  the  room  of  rocks. 

A  great,  gray  stone,  cut  squarely,  like  an  altar,  sat  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  Over  it  burned  three  candles,  in  sway 
ing  tin  cups  hung  from  the  ceiling.  Before  it,  with  what 
seemed  to  be  a  small  volume  clasped  in  his  yellow  fingers, 
stood  a  man.  He  was  an  infinitely  sallow  person  in  the 
brown-checked  shirt  of  the  ploughs  and  cows.  The  rest  of 
his  apparel  was  boots.  A  long  grey  beard  dangled  from  his 
chin.  He  fixed  glinting,  fiery  eyes  upon  the  heap  of  men, 
and  remained  motionless.  Fascinated,  their  tongues  cleav 
ing,  their  blood  cold,  they  arose  to  their  feet.  The  gleaming 
glance  of  the  recluse  swept  slowly  over  the  group  until  it 
found  the  face  of  the  little  man.  There  it  stayed  and  burned. 

The  little  man  shrivelled  and  crumpled  as  the  dried  leaf 
under  the  glass. 

Finally,  the  recluse  slowly,  deeply  spoke.  It  was  a  true 
voice  from  a  cave-,  cold,  solemn,  and  damp. 

"It's  your  ante,"  he  said. 

"What?"  said  the  little  man. 

The  hermit  tilted  his  beard  and  laughed  a  laugh  that  was 
either  the  chatter  of  a  banshee  in  a  storm  or  the  rattle  of 
pebbles  in  a  tin  box.  His  visitors'  flesh  seemed  ready  to 
drop  from  their  bones. 


FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE  187 

They  huddled  together  and  cast  fearful  eyes  over  their 
shoulders.  They  whispered. 

"A  vampire!"  said  one. 

"A  ghoul!"  said  another. 

"A  Druid  before  the  sacrifice,"  murmured  another. 

"The  shade  of  an  Aztec  witch  doctor,"  said  the  little  man. 

As  they  looked,  the  inscrutable  face  underwent  a  change. 
It  became  a  livid  background  for  his  eyes,  which  blazed  at 
the  little  man  like  impassioned  carbuncles.  His  voice  arose 
to  a  howl  of  ferocity.  "It's  your  ante!"  With  a  panther- 
like  motion  he  drew  a  long,  thin  knife  and  advanced,  stoop 
ing.  Two  cadaverous  hounds  came  from  nowhere,  and, 
scowling  and  growling,  made  desperate  feints  at  the  little 
man's  legs.  His  quaking  companions  pushed  him  forward. 

Tremblingly  he  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket. 

"How  much?"  he  said,  with  a  shivering  look  at  the  knife 
that  glittered. 

The  carbuncles  faded. 

"Three  dollars,"  said  the  hermit,  in  sepulchral  tones  which 
rang  against  the  walls  and  among  the  passages,  awakening 
long-dead  spirits  with  voices.  The  shaking  little  man  took  a 
roll  of  bills  from  a  pocket  and  placed  "three  ones"  upon  the 
altar-like  stone.  The  recluse  looked  at  the  little  volume 
with  reverence  in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  pack  of  playing  cards. 

Under  the  three  swinging  candles,  upon  the  altar-like  stone, 
the  grey  beard  and  the  agonized  little  man  played  at  poker. 
The  three  other  men  crouched  in  a  corner,  and  stared  with 
eyes  that  gleamed  with  terror.  Before  them  sat  the  cada 
verous  hounds  licking  their  red  lips.  The  candles  burned 
low,  and  began  to  flicker.  The  fire  in  the  corner  expired. 


i88  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

Finally,  the  game  came  to  a  point  where  the  little  man 
laid  down  his  hand  and  quavered:  "I  can't  call  you  this 
time,  sir.  I'm  dead  broke." 

"What?"  shrieked  the  recluse.  "Not  call  me!  Villain! 
Dastard!  Cur!  I  have  four  queens,  miscreant."  His  voice 
grew  so  mighty  that  it  could  not  fit  his  throat.  He  choked^ 
wrestling  with  his  lungs  for  a  moment.  Then  the  power 
of  his  body  was  concentrated  in  a  word:  "Go!" 

He  pointed  a  quivering,  yellow  finger  at  a  wide  crack  in 
the  rock.  The  little  man  threw  himself  at  it  with  a  howl. 
His  erstwhile  frozen  companions  felt  their  blood  throb  again. 
With  great  bounds  they  plunged  after  the  little  man.  A 
minute  of  scrambling,  falling,  and  pushing  brought  them  to 
open  air.  They  climbed  the  distance  to  their  camp  in  furious 
springs. 

The  sky  in  the  east  was  a  lurid  yellow.  In  the  west  the 
footprints  of  departing  night  lay  on  the  pine  trees.  In  front 
of  their  replenished  camp  fire  sat  John  Willerkins,  the  guide. 

"Hello!"  he  shouted  at  their  approach.  "Be  you  fellers 
ready  to  go  deer  huntin'?" 

Without  replying,  they  stopped  and  debated  among  them 
selves  in  whispers. 

Finally,  the  pudgy  man  came  forward. 

"John,"  he  inquired,  "do  you  know  anything  peculiar 
about  this  cave  below  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  Willerkins  at  once;  "Tom  Gardner." 

"What?"  said  the  pudgy  man. 

"Tom  Gardner." 

"How's  that?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Willerkins  slowly,  as  he  took  digni- 


FOUR  MEN  IN  A  CAVE  189 

fied  pulls  at  his  pipe,  "Tom  Gardner  was  once  a  fambly  man, 
who  lived  in  these  here  parts  on  a  nice  leetle  farm.  He  uster 
go  away  to  the  city  orften,  and  one  time  he  got  a-gamblin' 
in  one  of  them  there  dens.  He  went  ter  the  dickens  right 
quick  then.  At  last  he  kum  home  one  time  and  tol'  his 
folks  he  had  up  and  sold  the  farm  and  all  he  had  in  the 
worl'.  His  leetle  wife  she  died  then.  Tom  he  went  crazy, 
and  soon  after — 

The  narrative  was  interrupted  by  the  little  man,  who  be 
came  possessed  of  devils. 

"I  wouldn't  give  a  cuss  if  he  had  left  me  'nough  money 
to  get  home  on  the  doggoned,  grey-haired  red  pirate,"  he 
shrilled,  in  a  seething  sentence.  The  pudgy  man  gazed  at 
the  little  man  calmly  and  sneeringly. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "we  can  tell  a  great  tale  when  we  get 
back  to  the  city  after  having  investigated  this  thing." 

"Go  to  the  devil,"  replied  the  little  man. 


THE  MESMERIC  MOUNTAIN 


THE  MESMERIC   MOUNTAIN 

A  TALE  OF  SULLIVAN   COUNTY 

ON  the  brow  of  a  pine-plumed  hillock  there  sat  a  little 
man  with  his  back  against  a  tree.  A  venerable  pipe  hung 
from  his  mouth,  and  smoke-wreaths  curled  slowly  skyward. 
He  was  muttering  to  himself  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  an  ir 
regular  black  opening  in  the  green  wall  of  forest  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  Two  vague  wagon  ruts  led  into  the  shadows. 
The  little  man  took  his  pipe  in  his  hands  and  addressed  the 
listening  pines. 

"I  wonder  what  the  devil  it  leads  to,"  said  he. 

A  grey,  fat  rabbit  came  lazily  from  a  thicket  and  sat  in 
the  opening.  Softly  stroking  his  stomach  with  his  paw,  he 
looked  at  the  little  man  in  a  thoughtful  manner.  The  little 
man  threw  a  stone,  and  the  rabbit  blinked  and  ran  through 
an  opening.  Green,  shadowy  portals  seemed  to  close  behind 
him. 

The  little  man  started.  "He's  gone  down  that  roadway," 
he  said,  with  ecstatic  mystery  to  the  pines.  He  sat  a  long 
time  and  contemplated  the  door  to  the  forest.  Finally,  he 
arose,  and  awakening  his  limbs,  started  away.  But  he  stopped 
and  looked  back. 

"I  can't  imagine  what  it  leads  to,"  muttered  he.  He 
trudged  over  the  brown  mats  of  pine  needles,  to  where,  in  a 

193 


i94  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

fringe  of  laurel,  a  tent  was  pitched,  and  merry  flames  ca 
roused  about  some  logs.  A  pudgy  man  was  fuming  over  a 
collection  of  tin  dishes.  He  came  forward  and  waved  a 
plate  furiously  in  the  little  man's  face. 

"I've  washed  the  dishes  for  three  days.  What  do  you 
think  I  am—" 

He  ended  a  red  oration  with  a  roar:  "Damned  if  I  do 
it  any  more." 

The  little  man  gazed  dim-eyed  away.  "I've  been  won- 
derin'  what  it  leads  to." 

"What?" 

"That  road  out  yonder.  I've  been  wonderin'  what  it 
leads  to.  Maybe,  some  discovery  or  something,"  said  the 
little  man. 

The  pudgy  man  laughed.  "You're  an  idiot.  It  leads  to 
oP  Jim  Boyd's  over  on  the  Lumberland  Pike." 

"Ho!"  said  the  little  man,  "I  don't  believe  that." 

The  pudgy  man  swore.     "Fool,  what  does  it  lead  to,  then?" 

"I  don't  know  just  what,  but  I'm  sure  it  leads  to  some 
thing  great  or  something.  It  looks  like  it." 

While  the  pudgy  man  was  cursing,  two  more  men  came 
from  obscurity  with  fish  dangling  from  birch  twigs.  The 
pudgy  man  made  an  obviously  herculean  struggle  and  a  meal 
was  prepared.  As  he  was  drinking  his  cup  of  coffee,  he  sud 
denly  spilled  it  and  swore.  The  little  man  was  wandering 
off. 

"He's  gone  to  look  at  that  hole,"  cried  the  pudgy  man. 

The  little  man  went  to  the  edge  of  the  pine-plumed  hillock, 
and,  sitting  down,  began  to  make  smoke  and  regard  the  door 
to  the  forest.  There  was  stillness  for  an  hour.  Compact 


THE  MESMERIC  MOUNTAIN  195 

clouds  hung  unstirred  in  the  sky.  The  pines  stood  motion 
less,  and  pondering. 

Suddenly  the  little  man  slapped  his  knees  and  bit  his 
tongue.  He  stood  up  and  determinedly  filled  his  pipe,  roll 
ing  his  eye  over  the  bowl  to  the  doorway.  Keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  he  slid  dangerously  to  the  foot  of  the  hillock  and 
walked  down  the  wagon  ruts.  A  moment  later  he  passec1 
from  the  noise  of  the  sunshine  to  the  gloom  of  the  woods. 

The  green  portals  closed,  shutting  out  live  things.  The 
little  man  trudged  on  alone. 

Tall  tangled  grass  grew  in  the  roadway,  and  the  trees 
bended  obstructing  branches.  The  little  man  followed  on 
over  pine-clothed  ridges  and  down  through  water-soaked 
swales.  His  shoes  were  cut  by  rocks  of  the  mountains,  and 
he  sank  ankle-deep  in  mud  and  moss  of  swamps.  A  curve 
just  ahead  lured  him  miles. 

Finally,  as  he  wended  the  side  of  a  ridge,  the  road  dis 
appeared  from  beneath  his  feet.  He  battled  with  hordes  of 
ignorant  bushes  on  his  way  to  knolls  and  solitary  trees  which 
invited  him.  Once  he  came  to  a  tall,  bearded  pine.  He 
climbed  it,  and  perceived  in  the  distance  a  peak.  He  ut 
tered  an  ejaculation  and  fell  out. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  said:  "That's  Jones's  Moun 
tain,  I  guess.  It's  about  six  miles  from  our  camp  as  the 
crow  flies." 

He  changed  his  course  away  from  the  mountain,  and  at 
tacked  the  bushes  again.  He  climbed  over  great  logs,  golden- 
brown  in  decay,  and  was  opposed  by  thickets  of  dark-green 
laurel.  A  brook  slid  through  the  ooze  of  a  swamp,  cedars 
and  hemlocks  hung  their  spray  to  the  edges  of  pools. 


i96  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

The  little  man  began  to  stagger  in  his  walk.  After  a 
time  he  stopped  and  mopped  his  brow. 

"My  legs  are  about  to  shrivel  up  and  drop  off,"  he  said. 
.  .  .  "Still  if  I  keep  on  in  this  direction,  I  am  safe  to 
strike  the  Lumberland  Pike  before  sundown." 

He  dived  at  a  clump  of  tag-alders,  and  emerging,  con 
fronted  Jones's  Mountain. 

The  wanderer  sat  down  in  a  clear  space  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  summit.  His  mouth  opened  widely,  and  his 
body  swayed  at  times.  The  little  man  and  the  peak  stared 
in  silence. 

A  lazy  lake  lay  asleep  near  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  In 
its  bed  of  water-grass  some  frogs  leered  at  the  sky  and 
crooned.  The  sun  sank  in  red  silence,  and  the  shadows  of 
the  pines  grew  formidable.  The  expectant  hush  of  even 
ing,  as  if  some  thing  were  going  to  sing  a  hymn,  fell  upon 
the  peak  and  the  little  man. 

A  leaping  pickerel  off  on  the  water  created  a  silver  circle 
that  was  lost  in  black  shadows.  The  little  man  shook  him 
self  and  started  to  his  feet,  crying:  "For  the  love  of  Mike, 
there's  eyes  in  this  mountain!  I  feel  'em!  Eyes!" 

He  fell  on  his  face. 

When  he  looked  again,  he  immediately  sprang  erect  and 
ran. 

"It's  comin'!" 

The  moutain  was  approaching. 

The  little  man  scurried,  sobbing  through  the  thick  growth. 
He  felt  his  brain  turning  to  water.  He  vanquished  brambles 
with  mighty  bounds. 


THE  MESMERIC  MOUNTAIN  197 

But  after  a  time  he  came  again  to  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain. 

"God! "  he  howled,  "it's  been  follerin'  me."     He  grovelled. 

Casting  his  eyes  upward  made  circles  swirl  in  his  blood. 

"I'm  shackled  I  guess,"  he  moaned.  As  he  felt  the  heel 
of  the  mountain  about  to  crush  his  head,  he  sprang  again 
to  his  feet.  He  grasped  a  handful  of  small  stones  and 
hurled  them. 

"Damn  you,"  he  shrieked  loudly.  The  pebbles  rang 
against  the  face  of  the  mountain. 

The  little  man  then  made  an  attack.  He  climbed  with 
hands  and  feet  wildly.  Brambles  forced  him  back  and  stones 
slid  from  beneath  his  feet.  The  peak  swayed  and  tottered, 
and  was  ever  about  to  smite  with  a  granite  arm.  The  sum 
mit  was  a  blaze  of  red  wrath. 

But  the  little  man  at  last  reached  the  top.  Immediately 
he  swaggered  with  valor  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  His  hands 
were  scornfully  in  his  pockets. 

He  gazed  at  the  western  horizon,  edged  sharply  against 
a  yellow  sky.  "Ho!"  he  said.  "There's  Boyd's  house  and 
the  Lumberland  Pike." 

The  mountain  under  his  feet  was  motionless. 


THE  SNAKE 


THE  SNAKE 

WHERE  the  path  wended  across  the  ridge,  the  bushes  of 
huckleberry  and  sweet  fern  swarmed  at  it  in  two  curling 
waves  until  it  was  a  mere  winding  line  traced  through  a 
tangle.  There  was  no  interference  by  clouds,  and  as  the  rays 
of  the  sun  fell  full  upon  the  ridge,  they  called  into  voice  in 
numerable  insects  which  chanted  the  heat  of  the  summer 
day  in  steady,  throbbing,  unending  chorus. 

A  man  and  a  dog  came  from  the  laurel  thickets  of  the 
valley  where  the  white  brook  brawled  with  the  rocks.  They 
followed  the  deep  line  of  the  path  across  the  ridges.  The 
dog — a  large  lemon  and  white  setter — walked,  tranquilly 
meditative,  at  his  master's  heels. 

Suddenly  from  some  unknown  and  yet  near  place  in  ad 
vance  there  came  a  dry,  shrill  whistling  rattle  that  smote  mo 
tion  instantly  from  the  limbs  of  the  man  and  the  dog.  Like 
the  fingers  of  a  sudden  death,  this  sound  seemed  to  touch  the 
man  at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  at  the  top  of  the  spine,  and 
change  him,  as  swift  as  thought,  to  a  statue  of  listening  hor 
ror,  surprise,  rage.  The  dog,  too — the  same  icy  hand  was 
laid  upon  him,  and  he  stood  crouched  and  quivering,  his  jaw 
dropping,  the  froth  of  terror  upon  his  lips,  the  light  of  hatred 
in  his  eyes. 

Slowly  the  man  moved  his  hands  toward  the  bushes,  but 

201 


202  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

his  glance  did  not  turn  from  the  place  made  sinister  by  the 
warning  rattle.  His  fingers,  unguided,  sought  for  a  stick  of 
weight  and  strength.  Presently  they  closed  about  one  that 
seemed  adequate,  and  holding  this  weapon  poised  before  him, 
the  man  moved  slowly  forward,  glaring.  The  dog  with  his 
nervous  nostrils  fairly  fluttering  moved  warily,  one  foot  at  a 
time,  after  his  master. 

But  when  the  man  came  upon  the  snake,  his  body  under 
went  a  shock  as  if  from  a  revelation,  as  if  after  all  he  had 
been  ambushed.  With  a  blanched  face,  he  sprang  forward 
and  his  breath  came  in  strained  gasps,  his  chest  heaving  as 
if  he  were  in  the  performance  of  an  extraordinary  muscular 
trial.  His  arm  with  the  stick  made  a  spasmodic,  defensive 
gesture. 

The  snake  had  apparently  been  crossing  the  path  in  some 
mystic  travel  when  to  his  sense  there  came  the  knowledge 
of  the  coming  of  his  foes.  The  dull  vibration  perhaps  in 
formed  him,  and  he  flung  his  body  to  face  the  danger.  He 
had  no  knowledge  of  paths;  he  had  no  wit  to  tell  him  to 
slink  noiselessly  into  the  bushes.  He  knew  that  his  im 
placable  enemies  were  approaching;  no  doubt  they  were  seek 
ing  him,  hunting  him.  And  so  he  cried  his  cry,  an  incredibly 
swift  jangle  of  tiny  bells,  as  burdened  with  pathos  as  the 
hammering  upon  quaint  cymbals  by  the  Chinese  at  war — 
for,  indeed,  it  was  usually  his  death-music. 

"Beware!     Beware!     Beware!" 

The  man  and  the  snake  confronted  each  other.  In  the 
man's  eyes  were  hatred  and  fear.  In  the  snake's  eyes  were 
hatred  and  fear.  These  enemies  maneuvered,  each  preparing 
to  kill.  It  was  to  be  a  battle  without  mercy.  Neither 


THE  SNAKE  203 

knew  of  mercy  for  such  a  situation.  In  the  man  was  all  the 
wild  strength  of  the  terror  of  his  ancestors,  of  his  race,  of 
his  kind.  A  deadly  repulsion  had  been  handed  from  man 
to  man  through  long  dim  centuries.  This  was  another  de 
tail  of  a  war  that  had  begun  evidently  when  first  there  were 
men  and  snakes.  Individuals  who  do  not  participate  in 
this  strife  incur  the  investigations  of  scientists.  Once  there 
was  a  man  and  a  snake  who  were  friends,  and  at  the  end, 
the  man  lay  dead  with  the  marks  of  the  snake's  caress  just 
over  his  East  Indian  heart.  In  the  formation  of  devices, 
hideous  and  horrible,  Nature  reached  her  supreme  point  in 
the  making  of  the  snake,  so  that  priests  who  really  paint  hell 
well  fill  it  with  snakes  instead  of  fire.  The  curving  forms, 
these  scintillant  coloring  create  at  once,  upon  sight,  more 
relentless  animosities  than  do  shake  barbaric  tribes.  To  be 
born  a  snake  is  to  be  thrust  into  a  place  a-swarm  with  for 
midable  foes.  To  gain  an  appreciation  of  it,  view  hell  as 
pictured  by  priests  who  are  really  skilful. 

As  for  this  snake  in  the  pathway,  there  was  a  double 
curve  some  inches  back  of  its  head,  which,  merely  by  the 
potency  of  its  lines,  made  the  man  feel  with  tenfold  elo 
quence  the  touch  of  the  death-fingers  at  the  nape  of  his 
neck.  The  reptile's  head  was  waving  slowly  from  side  to 
side  and  its  hot  eyes  flashed  like  little  murder-lights.  Always 
in  the  air  was  the  dry,  shrill  whistling  of  the  rattles. 

"Beware!     Beware!     Beware!" 

The  man  made  a  preliminary  feint  with  his  stick.  In 
stantly  the  snake's  heavy  head  and  neck  were  bended  back 
on  the  double  curve  and  instantly  the  snake's  body  shot  for 
ward  in  a  low,  strait,  hard  spring.  The  man  jumped  with 


204  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

a  convulsive  chatter  and  swung  his  stick.  The  blind,  sweep 
ing  blow  fell  upon  the  snake's  head  and  hurled  him  so  that 
steel-colored  plates  were  for  a  moment  uppermost.  But 
he  rallied  swiftly,  agilely,  and  again  the  head  and  neck 
bended  back  to  the  double  curve,  and  the  steaming,  wide- 
open  mouth  made  its  desperate  effort  to  reach  its  enemy. 
This  attack,  it  could  be  seen,  was  despairing,  but  it  was 
nevertheless  impetuous,  gallant,  ferocious,  of  the  same  quality 
as  the  charge  of  the  lone  chief  when  the  walls  of  white  faces 
close  upon  him  in  the  mountains.  The  stick  swung  un 
erringly  again,  and  the  snake,  mutilated,  torn,  whirled  him 
self  into  the  last  coil. 

And  now  the  man  went  sheer  raving  mad  from  the  emo 
tions  of  his  forefathers  and  from  his  own.  He  came  to  close 
quarters.  He  gripped  the  stick  with  his  two  hands  and  made 
it  speed  like  a  flail.  The  snake,  tumbling  in  the  anguish 
of  final  despair,  fought,  bit,  flung  itself  upon  this  stick  which 
was  taking  his  life. 

At  the  end,  the  man  clutched  his  stick  and  stood  watching 
in  silence.  The  dog  came  slowly  and  with  infinite  caution 
stretched  his  nose  forward,  sniffing.  The  hair  upon  his  neck 
and  back  moved  and  ruffled  as  if  a  sharp  wind  was  blowing, 
the  last  muscular  quivers  of  the  snake  were  causing  the 
rattles  to  still  sound  their  treble  cry,  the  shrill,  ringing  war 
chant  and  hymn  of  the  grave  of  the  thing  that  faces  foes  at 
once  countless,  implacable,  and  superior. 

"Well,  Rover,"  said  the  man,  turning  to  the  dog  with  a 
grin  of  victory,  "we'll  carry  Mr.  Snake  home  to  show  the 
girls." 

His  hands  still  trembled  from  the  strain  of  the  encounter, 


THE  SNAKE  203 

but  he  pried  with  his  stick  under  the  body  of  the  snake  and 
hoisted  the  limp  thing  upon  it.  He  resumed  his  march  along 
the  path,  and  the  dog  walked  tranquilly  meditative,  at  his 
master's  heels. 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS 

CHAPTER  I 

LONDON  at  first  consisted  of  a  porter  with  the  most  charm 
ing  manners  in  the  world,  and  a  cabman  with  a  supreme 
intelligence,  both  observing  my  profound  ignorance  without 
contempt  or  humor  of  any  kind  observable  in  their  manners. 
It  was  in  a  great  resounding  vault  of  a  place  where  there 
were  many  people  who  had  come  home,  and  I  was  displeased 
because  they  knew  the  detail  of  the  business,  whereas  I  was 
confronting  the  inscrutable.  This  made  them  appear  very 
stony-hearted  to  the  sufferings  of  one  of  whose  existence,  to 
be  sure,  they  were  entirely  unaware,  and  I  remember  taking 
great  pleasure  in  disliking  them  heartily  for  it.  I  was  in  an 
agony  of  mind  over  my  baggage,  or  my  luggage,  or  my — 
perhaps  it  is  well  to  shy  around  this  terrible  international 
question;  but  I  remember  that  when  I  was  a  lad  I  was  told 
that  there  was  a  whole  nation  that  said  luggage  instead  of 
baggage,  and  my  boyish  mind  was  filled  at  the  time  with  in 
credulity  and  scorn.  In  the  present  case  it  was  a  thing  that 
I  understood  to  involve  the  most  hideous  confessions  of 
imbecility  on  my  part,  because  I  had  evidently  to  go  out  to 
some  obscure  point  and  espy  it  and  claim  it,  and  take  trouble 
for  it;  and  I  would  rather  have  had  my  pockets  filled  with 
bread  and  cheese,  and  had  no  baggage  at  all. 

Mind  you,  this  was  not  at  all  a  homage  that  I  was  paying 
to  London.  I  was  paying  homage  to  a  new  game.  A  man 

209 


210  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

properly  lazy  does  not  like  new  experiences  until  they  be 
come  old  ones.  Moreover,  I  have  been  taught  that  a  man, 
any  man,  who  has  a  thousand  times  more  points  of  informa 
tion  on  a  certain  thing  than  I  have  will  bully  me  because 
of  it,  and  pour  his  advantages  upon  my  bowed  head  until 
I  am  drenched  with  his  superiority.  It  was  in  my  educa 
tion  to  concede  some  license  of  the  kind  in  this  case,  but  the 
holy  father  of  a  porter  and  the  saintly  cabman  occupied  the 
middle  distance  imperturbably,  and  did  not  come  down  from 
their  hills  to  clout  me  with  knowledge.  From  this  fact  I 
experienced  a  criminal  elation.  I  lost  view  of  the  idea  that 
if  I  had  been  brow-beaten  by  porters  and  cabmen  from  one 
end  of  the  United  States  to  the  other  end  I  should  warmly 
like  it,  because  in  numbers  they  are  superior  to  me,  and  col 
lectively  they  can  have  a  great  deal  of  fun  out  of  a  matter 
that  would  merely  afford  me  the  glee  of  the  latent  butcher. 

This  London,  composed  of  a  porter  and  a  cabman,  stood 
to  me  subtly  as  a  benefactor.  I  had  scanned  the  drama, 
and  found  that  I  did  not  believe  that  the  mood  of  the  men 
emanated  unduly  from  the  feature  that  there  was  probably 
more  shillings  to  the  square  inch  of  me  than  there  were 
shillings  to  the  square  inch  of  them.  Nor  yet  was  it  any 
manner  of  palpable  warm-heartedness  or  other  natural  vir 
tue.  But  it  was  a  perfect  artificial  virtue;  it  was  drill,  plain, 
simple  drill.  And  now  was  I  glad  of  their  drilling,  and 
vividly  approved  of  it,  because  I  saw  that  it  was  good  for  me. 
Whether  it  was  good  or  bad  for  the  porter  and  the  cabman 
I  could  not  know;  but  that  point,  mark  you,  came  within 
the  pale  of  my  respectable  rumination. 

I  am  sure  that  it  would  have  been  more  correct  for  me 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  211 

to  have  alighted  upon  St.  Paul's  and  described  no  emotion 
until  I  was  overcome  by  the  Thames  Embankment  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  not 
see  them  for  some  days,  and  at  this  time  they  did  not  con 
cern  me  at  all.  I  was  born  in  London  at  a  railroad  station, 
and  my  new  vision  encompassed  a  porter  and  a  cabman, 
They  deeply  absorbed  me  in  new  phenomena,  and  I  did  not 
then  care  to  see  the  Thames  Embankment  nor  the  Houses 
of  Parliament.  I  considered  the  porter  and  the  cabman  t<? 
be  more  important. 

CHAPTER    II  f 

THE  cab  finally  rolled  out  of  the  gas-lit  vault  into  a  vast 
expanse  of  gloom.  This  changed  to  the  shadowy  lines  of  a 
street  that  was  like  a  passage  in  a  monstrous  cave.  The 
lamps  winking  here  and  there  resembled  the  little  gleams 
at  the  caps  of  the  miners.  They  were  not  very  competent 
illuminations  at  best,  merely  being  little  pale  flares  of  gas 
that  at  their  most  heroic  periods  could  only  display  one  fact 
concerning  this  tunnel — the  fact  of  general  direction.  But 
at  any  rate  I  should  have  liked  to  have  observed  the  dejec 
tion  of  a  search-light  if  it  had  been  called  upon  to  attempt 
to  bore  through  this  atmosphere.  In  it  each  man  sat  in  his 
own  little  cylinder  of  vision,  so  to  speak.  It  was  not  so 
small  as  a  sentry-box  nor  so  large  as  a  circus  tent,  but  the 
walls  were  opaque,  and  what  was  passing  beyond  the  di 
mensions  of  his  cylinder  no  man  knew. 

It  was  evident  that  the  paving  was  very  greasy,  but  all 
the  cabs  that  passed  through  my  cylinder  were  going  at  a 


212  MEN,    WOMEN   AND    BOATS 

round  trot,  while  the  wheels,  shod  in  rubber,  whirred  merely 
like  bicycles.  The  hoofs  of  the  animals  themselves  did  not 
make  that  wild  clatter  which  I  knew  so  well.  New  York, 
in  fact,  roars  always  like  ten  thousand  devils.  We  have 
ingenuous  and  simple  ways  of  making  a  din  in  New  York 
that  cause  the  stranger  to  conclude  that  each  citizen  is  obliged 
by  statute  to  provide  himself  with  a  pair  of  cymbals  and  a 
drum.  If  anything  by  chance  can  be  turned  into  a  noise 
it  is  promptly  turned.  We  are  engaged  in  the  development 
of  a  human  creature  with  very  large,  sturdy,  and  doubly- 
fortified  ears. 

It  was  not  too  late  at  night,  but  this  London  moved  with 
the  decorum  and  caution  of  an  undertaker.  There  was  a 
silence,  and  yet  there  was  no  silence.  There  was  a  low 
drone,  perhaps  a  humming  contributed  inevitably  by  closely- 
gathered  thousands,  and  yet  on  second  thoughts  it  was  to 
me  silence.  I  had  perched  my  ears  for  the  note  of  London, 
the  sound  made  simply  by  the  existence  of  five  million  people 
in  one  place.  I  had  imagined  something  deep,  vastly  deep, 
a  bass  from  a  mythical  organ,  but  found  as  far  as  I  was  con 
cerned,  only  a  silence. 

New  York  in  numbers  is  a  mighty  city,  and  all  day  and 
all  night  it  cries  its  loud,  fierce,  aspiring  cry,  a  noise  of 
men  beating  upon  barrels,  a  noise  of  men  beating  upon  tin, 
a  terrific  racket  that  assails  the  abject  skies.  No  one  of  us 
seemed  to  question  this  row  as  a  certain  consequence  of  three 
or  four  million  people  living  together  and  scuffling  for  coin, 
with  more  agility,  perhaps,  but  otherwise  in  the  usual  way. 
However,  after  this  easy  silence  of  London,  which  in  num 
bers  is  a  mightier  city,  I  began  to  feel  that  there  was  a  se- 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  213 

duction  in  this  idea  of  necessity.  Our  noise  in  New  York 
was  not  a  consequence  of  our  rapidity  at  all.  It  was  a  con 
sequence  of  our  bad  pavements. 

Any  brigade  of  artillery  in  Europe  that  would  love  to 
assemble  its  batteries,  and  then  go  on  a  gallop  over  the 
land,  thundering  and  thundering,  would  give  up  the  idea 
of  thunder  at  once  if  it  could  hear  Tim  Mulligan  drive  a 
beer  wagon  along  one  of  the  side  streets  of  cobbled  New 
York. 

CHAPTER   III 

FINALLY  a  great  thing  came  to  pass.  The  cab  horse,  pro 
ceeding  at  a  sharp  trot,  found  himself  suddenly  at  the  top 
of  an  incline,  where  through  the  rain  the  pavement  shone 
like  an  expanse  of  ice.  It  looked  to  me  as  if  there  was  going 
to  be  a  tumble.  In  an  accident  of  such  a  kind  a  hansom 
becomes  really  a  cannon  in  which  a  man  finds  that  he  has 
paid  shillings  for  the  privilege  of  serving  as  a  projectile.  I 
was  making  a  rapid  calculation  of  the  arc  that  I  would  de 
scribe  in  my  flight,  when  the  horse  met  his  crisis  with  a 
masterly  device  that  I  could  not  have  imagined.  He  tran 
quilly  braced  his  four  feet  like  a  bundle  of  stakes,  and  then, 
with  a  gentle  gaiety  of  demeanor,  he  slid  swiftly  and  grace 
fully  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  as  if  he  had  been  a  toboggan. 
When  the  incline  ended  he  caught  his  gait  again  with  great 
dexterity,  and  went  pattering  off  through  another  tunnel. 

I  at  once  looked  upon  myself  as  being  singularly  blessed 
by  this  sight.  This  horse  had  evidently  originated  this  sys 
tem  of  skating  as  a  diversion,  or,  more  probably,  as  a  pre- 


214  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

caution  against  the  slippery  pavement;  and  he  was,  of  course, 
the  inventor  and  sole  proprietor — two  terms  that  are  not 
always  in  conjunction.  It  surely  was  not  to  be  supposed  that 
there  could  be  two  skaters  like  him  in  the  world.  He  de 
served  to  be  known  and  publicly  praised  for  this  accomplish 
ment.  It  was  worthy  of  many  records  and  exhibitions.  But 
when  the  cab  arrived  at  a  place  where  some  dipping  streets 
met,  and  the  flaming  front  of  a  music-hall  temporarily  wi 
dened  my  cylinder,  behold  there  were  many  cabs,  and  as  the 
moment  of  necessity  came  the  horses  were  all  skaters.  They 
were  gliding  in  all  directions.  It  might  have  been  a  rink. 
A  great  omnibus  was  hailed  by  a  hand  under  an  umbrella  on 
the  side  walk,  and  the  dignified  horses  bidden  to  halt  from 
their  trot  did  not  waste  time  in  wild  and  unseemly  spasms. 
They,  too,  braced  their  legs  and  slid  gravely  to  the  end  of 
their  momentum. 

It  was  not  the  feat,  but  it  was  the  word  which  had  at  this 
time  the  power  to  conjure  memories  of  skating  parties  on 
moonlit  lakes,  with  laughter  ringing  over  the  ice,  and  a  great 
red  bonfire  on  the  shore  among  the  hemlocks. 

CHAPTER    IV 

A  TERRIBLE  thing  in  nature  is  the  fall  of  a  horse  in  his 
harness.  It  is  a  tragedy.  Despite  their  skill  in  skating 
there  was  that  about  the  pavement  on  the  rainy  evening 
which  filled  me  with  expectations  of  horses  going  headlong. 
Finally  it  happened  just  in  front.  There  was  a  shout  and 
a  tangle  in  the  darkness,  and  presently  a  prostrate  cab  horse 
came  within  niy  cylinder.  The  accident  having  been  a  com- 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  215 

plete  success  and  altogether  concluded,  a  voice  from  the  side 
walk  said,  "Look  out,  now!  Be  more  careful,  can't  you?" 

I  remember  a  constituent  of  a  Congressman  at  Washing 
ton  who  had  tried  in  vain  to  bore  this  Congressman  with  a 
wild  project  of  some  kind.  The  Congressman  eluded  him 
with  skill,  and  his  rage  and  despair  ultimately  culminated  in 
the  supreme  grievance  that  he  could  not  even  get  near  enough 
to  the  Congressman  to  tell  him  to  go  to  Hades. 

This  cabman  should  have  felt  the  same  desire  to  strangle 
this  man  who  spoke  from  the  sidewalk.  He  was  plainly  im 
potent;  he  was  deprived  of  the  power  of  looking  out.  There 
was  nothing  now  for  which  to  look  out.  The  man  on  the 
sidewalk  had  dragged  a  corpse  from  a  pond  and  said  to  it, 

"Be  more  careful,  can't  you,  or  you'll  drown?"  My  cab 
man  pulled  up  and  addressed  a  few  words  of  reproach  to 
the  other.  Three  or  four  figures  loomed  into  my  cylinder, 
and  as  they  appeared  spoke  to  the  author  or  the  victim  of 
the  calamity  in  varied  terms  of  displeasure.  Each  of  these 
reproaches  was  couched  in  terms  that  defined  the  situation 
as  impending.  No  blind  man  could  have  conceived  that  the 
precipitate  phrase  of  the  incident  was  absolutely  closed. 

"Look  out  now,  cawn't  you?"  And  there  was  nothing  in 
his  mind  which  approached  these  sentiments  near  enough  to 
tell  them  to  go  to  Hades. 

However,  it  needed  only  an  ear  to  know  presently  that 
these  expressions  were  formulae.  It  was  merely  the  obliga 
tory  dance  which  the  Indians  had  to  perform  before  they 
went  to  war.  These  men  had  come  to  help,  but  as  a  regular 
and  traditional  preliminary  they  had  first  to  display  to  this 
cabman  their  idea  of  his  ignominy. 


2l6  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

The  different  thing  in  the  affair  was  the  silence  of  the 
victim  He  retorted  never  a  word.  This,  too,  to  me  seemed 
to  be  an  obedience  to  a  recognized  form.  He  was  the  visible 
criminal,  if  there  was  a  criminal,  and  there  was  born  of  it  a 
privilege  for  them. 

They  unfastened  the  proper  straps  and  hauled  back  the 
cab.  They  fetched  a  mat  from  some  obscure  place  of  suc 
cor,  and  pushed  it  carefully  under  the  prostrate  thing.  From 
this  panting,  quivering  mass  they  suddenly  and  emphatically 
reconstructed  a  horse.  As  each  man  turned  to  go  his  way 
he  delivered  some  superior  caution  to  the  cabman  while  the 
latter  buckled  his  harness. 

CHAPTER   V 

THERE  was  to  be  noticed  in  this  band  of  rescuers  a  young 
man  in  evening  clothes  and  top-hat.     Now,  in  America  a 
young  man  in  evening  clothes  and  a  top-hat  may  be  a  ter 
rible  object.     He  is  not  likely  to  do  violence,  but  he  is  likely 
to  do  impassivity  and  indifference  to  the  point  where  they 
become  worse  than  violence.     There  are  certain  of  the  more 
idle  phases  of  civilization  to  which  America  has  not  yet 
awakened — and  it  is  a  matter  of  no  moment  if  she  remains 
unaware.    This  matter  of  hats  is  one  of  them.     I  recall  a 
legend  recited  to  me  by  an  esteemed  friend,  ex-Sheriff  of 
Tin  Can,  Nevada.       Jim  Cortright,  one  of  the  best  gun- 
fighters  in  town,  went  on  a  journey  to  Chicago,  and  while 
there  he  procured  a  top-hat.     He  was  quite  sure  how  Tin 
Can  would  accept  this  innovation,  but  he  relied  on  the  celer 
ity  with  which  he  could  get  a  six-shooter  in  action.     One 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  217 

Sunday  Jim  examined  his  guns  with  his  usual  care,  placed  the 
top-hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  sauntered  coolly  out 
into  the  streets  of  Tin  Can. 

Now,  while  Jim  was  in  Chicago  some  progressive  citizen 
had  decided  that  Tin  Can  needed  a  bowling  alley.  The 
carpenters  went  to  work  the  next  morning,  and  an  order 
for  the  balls  and  pins  was  telegraphed  to  Denver.  In  three 
days  the  whole  population  was  concentrated  at  the  new  alley 
betting  their  outfits  and  their  lives. 

It  has  since  been  accounted  very  unfortunate  that  Jim 
Cortright  had  not  learned  of  bowling  alleys  at  his  mother's 
knee  or  even  later  in  the  mines.  This  portion  of  his  mind 
was  singularly  belated.  He  might  have  been  an  Apache  for 
all  he  knew  of  bowling  alleys. 

In  his  careless  stroll  through  the  town,  his  hands  not  far 
from  his  belt  and  his  eyes  going  sideways  in  order  to  see 
who  would  shoot  first  at  the  hat,  he  came  upon  this  long, 
low  shanty  where  Tin  Can  was  betting  itself  hoarse  over  a 
game  between  a  team  from  the  ranks  of  Excelsior  Hose  Com 
pany  No.  i  and  a  team  composed  from  the  habitues  of  ths 
"Red  Light"  saloon. 

Jim,  in  blank  ignorance  of  bowling  phenomena,  wandered 
casually  through  a  little  door  into  what  must  always  be 
termed  the  wrong  end  of  a  bowling  alley.  Of  course,  he 
saw  that  the  supreme  moment  had  come.  They  were  not 
only  shooting  at  the  hat  and  at  him,  but  the  low-down  cusses 
were  using  the  most  extraordinary  and  hellish  ammunition. 
Still,  perfectly  undaunted,  however,  Jim  retorted  with  his 
two  Colts,  and  killed  three  of  the  best  bowlers  in  Tin  Can. 

The  ex-Sheriff  vouched  for  this  story.     He  himself  had 


2i8  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

gone  headlong  through  the  door  at  the  firing  of  the  first  shot 
with  that  simple  courtesy  which  leads  Western  men  to  donate 
the  fighters  plenty  of  room.  He  said  that  afterwards  the  hat 
was  the  cause  of  a  number  of  other  fights,  and  that  finally 
a  delegation  of  prominent  citizens  was  obliged  to  wait 
upon  Cortright  and  ask  him  if  he  wouldn't  take  that  thing 
away  somewhere  and  bury  it.  Jim  pointed  out  to  them  that 
it  was  his  hat,  and  that  he  would  regard  it  as  a  cowardly  con 
cession  if  he  submitted  to  their  dictation  in  the  matter  of 
his  headgear.  He  added  that  he  purposed  to  continue  to 
wear  his  top-hat  on  every  occasion  when  he  happened  to 
feel  that  the  wearing  of  a  top-hat  was  a  joy  and  a  solace  to 
him. 

The  delegation  sadly  retired,  and  announced  to  the  town 
that  Jim  Cortright  had  openly  defied  them,  and  had  de 
clared  his  purpose  of  forcing  his  top-hot  on  the  pained  at 
tention  of  Tin  Can  whenever  he  chose.  Jim  Cortright's  plug 
hat  became  a  phrase  with  considerable  meaning  to  it. 

However,  the  whole  affair  ended  in  a  great  passionate 
outburst  of  popular  revolution.  Spike  Foster  was  a  friend 
of  Cortright,  and  one  day,  when  the  latter  was  indisposed, 
Spike  came  to  him  and  borrowed  the  hat.  He  had  been 
drinking  heavily  at  the  "Red  Light,"  and  was  in  a  supremely 
reckless  mood.  With  the  terrible  gear  hanging  jauntily  over 
his  eye  and  his  two  guns  drawn,  he  walked  straight  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  square  in  front  of  the  Palace  Hotel,  and 
drew  the  attention  of  all  Tin  Can  by  a  blood-curdling  imita 
tion  of  the  yowl  of  a  mountain  lion. 

This  was  when  the  long  suffering  populace  arose  as  one 
man.  The  top-hat  had  been  flaunted  once  too  often.  When 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  210 

Spike  Foster's  friends  came  to  carry  him  away  they  found 
nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty  men  shooting  busily  at  a  mark 
— and  the  mark  was  the  hat.  • 

My  informant  told  me  that  he  believed  he  owed  his  popu 
larity  in  Tin  Can,  and  subsequently  his  election  to  the  dis 
tinguished  office  of  Sheriff,  to  the  active  and  prominent  part 
he  had  taken  in  the  proceedings. 

The  enmity  to  the  top-hat  expressed  by  the  convincing 
anecdote  exists  in  the  American  West  at  present,  I  think,  in 
the  perfection  of  its  strength;  but  disapproval  is  not  now 
displayed  by  volleys  from  the  citizens,  save  in  the  most  ag 
gravating  cases.  It  is  at  present  usually  a  matter  of  mere 
jibe  and  general  contempt.  The  East,  however,  despite  a 
great  deal  of  kicking  and  gouging,  is  having  the  top-hat 
stuffed  slowly  and  carefully  down  its  throat,  and  there  now 
exist  many  young  men  who  consider  that  they  could  not 
successfully  conduct  their  lives  without  this  furniture. 

To  speak  generally,  I  should  say  that  the  headgear  then 
supplies  them  with  a  kind  of  ferocity  of  indifference.  There 
is  fire,  sword,  and  pestilence  in  the  way  they  heed  only  them 
selves.  Philosophy  should  always  know  that  indifference  is 
a  militant  thing.  It  batters  down  the  walls  of  cities,  and 
murders  the  women  and  children  amid  flames  and  the  pur 
loining  of  altar  vessels.  When  it  goes  away  it  leaves  smok 
ing  ruins,  where  lie  citizens  bayoneted  through  the  throat. 
It  is  not  a  children's  pastime  like  mere  highway  robbery. 

Consequently  in  America  we  may  be  much  afraid  of  these 
young  men.  We  dive  down  alleys  so  that  we  may  not  kow 
tow.  It  is  a  fearsome  thing. 

Taught  thus  a  deep  fear  of  the  top-hat  in  its  effect  upon 


220  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

youth,  I  was  not  prepared  for  the  move  of  this  particular 
young  man  when  the  cab-horse  fell.  In  fact,  I  grovelled 
in  my  corner  that  I  might  not  see  the  cruel  stateliness  of  his 
passing.  But  in  the  meantime  he  had  crossed  the  street, 
and  contributed  the  strength  of  his  back  and  some  advice, 
as  well  as  the  formal  address,  to  the  cabman  on  the  im 
portance  of  looking  out  immediately. 

I  felt  that  I  was  making  a  notable  collection.  I  had  a 
new  kind  of  porter,  a  cylinder  of  vision,  horses  that  could 
skate,  and  now  I  added  a  young  man  in  a  top-hat  who  would 
tacitly  admit  that  the  beings  around  him  were  alive.  He 
was  not  walking  a  churchyard  filled  with  inferior  headstones. 
He  was  walking  the  world,  where  there  were  people,  many 
people. 

But  later  I  took  him  out  of  the  collection.  I  thought  he 
had  rebelled  against  the  manner  of  a  class,  but  I  soon  dis 
covered  that  the  top-hat  was  not  the  property  of  a  class. 
It  was  the  property  of  rogues,  clerks,  theatrical  agents, 
damned  seducers,  poor  men,  nobles,  and  others.  In  fact, 
it  was  the  universal  rigging.  It  was  the  only  hat;  all  other 
forms  might  as  well  be  named  ham,  or  chops,  or  oysters.  I 
retracted  my  admiration  of  the  young  man  because  he  may 
have  been  merely  a  rogue. 

CHAPTER   VI 

THERE  was  a  window  whereat  an  enterprising  man  by 
dodging  two  placards  and  a  calendar  was  entitled  to  view 
a  young  woman.  She  was  dejectedly  writing  in  a  large  book. 
She  was  ultimately  induced  to  open  the  window  a  trifle. 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  221 

"What  nyme,  please?"  she  said  wearily.  I  was  surprised 
to  hear  this  language  from  her.  I  had  expected  to  be  ad 
dressed  on  a  submarine  topic.  I  have  seen  shell  fishes  sadly 
writing  in  large  books  at  the  bottom  of  a  gloomy  acquarium 
who  could  not  ask  me  what  was  my  "nyme." 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  there  was  a  grim  portal  marked 
"Lift."  I  pressed  an  electric  button  and  heard  an  answering 
tinkle  in  the  heavens.  There  was  an  upholstered  settle  near 
at  hand,  and  I  discovered  the  reason.  A  deer-stalking  peace 
drooped  upon  everything,  and  in  it  a  man  could  invoke  the 
passing  of  a  lazy  pageant  of  twenty  years  of  his  life. 

The  dignity  of  a  coffin  being  lowered  into  a  grave  sur 
rounded  the  ultimate  appearance  of  the  lift.  The  expert 
we  in  America  call  the  elevator-boy  stepped  from  the  car, 
took  three  paces  forward,  faced  to  attention  and  saluted. 
This  elevator  boy  could  not  have  been  less  than  sixty  years 
of  age;  a  great  white  beard  streamed  towards  his  belt.  I 
saw  that  the  lift  had  been  longer  on  its  voyage  than  I  had 
suspected. 

Later  in  our  upward  progress  a  natural  event  would  have 
been  an  establishment  of  social  relations.  Two  enemies  im 
prisoned  together  during  the  still  hours  of  a  balloon  journey 
would,  I  believe,  suffer  a  mental  amalgamation.  The  over 
hang  of  a  common  fate,  a  great  principal  fact,  can  make 
an  equality  and  a  truce  between  any  pair.  Yet,  when  I 
disembarked,  a  final  survey  of  the  grey  beard  made  me  re 
call  that  I  had  failed  even  to  ask  the  boy  whether  he  had 
not  taken  probably  three  trips  on  this  lift. 

My  windows  overlooked  simply  a  great  sea  of  night,  in 
which  were  swimming  little  gas  fishes. 


222  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

CHAPTER   VH 

I  HAVE  of  late  been  led  to  reflect  wistfully  that  many  of 
the  illustrators  are  very  clever.  In  an  impatience,  which 
was  donated  by  a  certain  economy  of  apparel,  I  went  to  a 
window  to  look  upon  day-lit  London.  There  were  the 
'buses  parading  the  streets  with  the  miens  of  elephants. 
There  were  the  police  looking  precisely  as  I  had  been  in 
formed  by  the  prints.  There  were  the  sandwich-men.  There 
was  almost  everything. 

But  the  artists  had  not  told  me  the  sound  of  London. 
Now,  in  New  York  the  artists  are  able  to  portray  sound, 
because  in  New  York  a  dray  is  not  a  dray  at  all;  it  is  a 
great  potent  noise  hauled  by  two  or  more  horses.  When 
a  magazine  containing  an  illustration  of  a  New  York  street 
is  sent  to  me,  I  always  know  it  beforehand.  I  can  hear 
it  coming  through  the  mails.  As  I  have  said  previously, 
this  which  I  must  call  sound  of  London  was  to  me  only  a 
silence. 

Later,  in  front  of  the  hotel  a  cabman  that  I  hailed  said 
to  me — "Are  you  gowing  far,  sir?  I've  got  a  byby  here, 
and  want  to  giv'er  a  bit  of  a  blough."  This  impressed  me  as 
being  probably  a  quotation  from  an  early  Egyptian  poet, 
but  I  learned  soon  enough  that  the  word  "byby"  was  the 
name  of  some  kind  or  condition  of  horse.  The  cabman's 
next  remark  was  addressed  to  a  boy  who  took  a  perilous 
dive  between  the  byby's  nose  and  a  cab  in  front.  "That's 
roight.  Put  your  head  in  there  and  get  it  jammed — a 
whackin  good  place  for  it,  I  should  think."  Although  the 
tone  was  low  and  circumspect,  I  have  never  heard  a  better 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  223 

off-handed  declamation.  Every  word  was  cut  clear  of  dis 
reputable  alliances  with  its  neighbors.  The  whole  thing  was 
as  clean  as  a  row  of  pewter  mugs.  The  influence  of  in 
dignation  upon  the  voice  caused  me  to  reflect  that  we  might 
devise  a  mechanical  means  of  inflaming  some  in  that  con 
stellation  of  mummers  which  is  the  heritage  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race 

Then  I  saw  the  drilling  of  vehicles  by  two  policemen. 
There  were  four  torrents  converging  at  a  point,  and  when 
four  torrents  converge  at  one  point  engineering  experts  buy 
tickets  for  another  place. 

But  here,  again,  it  was  drill,  plain,  simple  drill.  I  must 
not  falter  in  saying  that  I  think  the  management  of  the 
traffic — as  the  phrase  goes — to  be  distinctly  illuminating  and 
wonderful.  The  police  were  not  ruffled  and  exasperated. 
They  were  as  peaceful  as  two  cows  in  a  pasture. 

I  can  remember  once  remarking  that  mankind,  with  all 
its  boasted  modern  progress,  had  not  yet  been  able  to  invent 
a  turnstile  that  will  commute  in  fractions.  I  have  now 
learned  that  756  rights-of-way  cannot  operate  simultaneously 
at  one  point.  Right-of-way,  like  fighting  women,  requires 
space.  Even  two  rights-of-way  can  make  a  scene  which  is 
only  suited  to  the  tastes  of  an  ancient  public. 

This  truth  was  very  evidently  reocgnized.  There  was  only 
one  right-of-way  at  a  time.  The  police  did  not  look  behind 
them  to  see  if  their  orders  were  to  be  obeyed ;  they  knew  they 
were  to  be  obeyed.  These  four  torrents  were  drilling  like 
four  battalions.  The  two  blue-cloth  men  maneuvered  them 
in  solemn,  abiding  peace,  the  silence  of  London. 

I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  the  intellect  of  the  individual, 


224  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

but  I  looked  at  one  constable  closely  and  his  face  was  a§ 
afire  with  intelligence  as  a  flannel  pin-cushion.  It  was  not 
the  police,  and  it  was  not  the  crowd.  It  was  the  police  and 
the  crowd.  Again,  it  was  drill. 

CHAPTER    VIII 

I  HAVE  never  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  signs.  I  don't 
like  to  read  signs.  I  have  never  met  a  man  that  liked  to 
read  signs.  I  once  invented  a  creature  who  could  play  the 
piano  with  a  hammer,  and  I  mentioned  him  to  a  professor 
in  Harvard  University  whose  peculiarity  was  Sanscrit.  He 
had  the  same  interest  in  my  invention  that  I  have  in  a  cer 
tain  kind  of  mustard.  And  yet  this  mustard  has  become  a 
part  of  me.  Or,  I  have  become  a  part  of  this  mustard. 
Further,  I  know  more  of  an  ink,  a  brand  of  hams,  a  kind  of 
cigarette,  and  a  novelist  than  any  man  living.  I  went  by 
train  to  see  a  friend  in  the  country,  and  after  passing  through 
a  patent  mucilage,  some  more  hams,  a  South  African  In 
vestment  Company,  a  Parisian  millinery  firm,  and  a  comic 
journal,  I  alighted  at  a  new  and  original  kind  of  corset.  On 
my  return  journey  the  road  almost  continuously  ran  through 
soap. 

I  have  accumulated  superior  information  concerning  these 
things,  because  I  am  at  their  mercy.  If  I  want  to  know 
where  I  am  I  must  find  the  definitive  sign.  This  accounts 
for  my  glib  use  of  the  word  mucilage,  as  well  as  the  titles 
of  other  staples. 

I  suppose  even  the  Briton  in  mixing  his  life  must  some 
times  consult  the  labels  on  Abuses  and  streets  and  stations, 
even  as  the  chemist  consults  the  labels  on  his  bottles  and 


LONDON  IMPRESSIONS  225 

boxes.  A  brave  man  would  possibly  affirm  that  this  was 
suggested  by  the  existence  of  the  labels. 

The  reason  that  I  did  not  learn  more  about  hams  and 
mucilage  in  New  York  seems  to  me  to  be  partly  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  British  advertiser  is  allowed  to  exercise  an 
unbridled  strategy  in  his  attack  with  his  new  corset  or  what 
ever  upon  the  defensive  public.  He  knows  that  the  vul 
nerable  point  is  the  informatory  sign  which  the  citizen  must, 
of  course,  use  for  his  guidance,  and  then,  with  horse,  foot, 
guns,  corsets,  hams,  mucilage,  investment  companies,  and 
all,  he  hurls  himself  at  the  point. 

Meanwhile  I  have  discovered  a  way  to  make  the  Sanscrit 
scholar  heed  my  creature  who  plays  the  piano  with  a  ham 
mer. 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS 

THE  entrance  to  Euston  Station  is  of  itself  sufficiently 
imposing.  It  is  a  high  portico  of  brown  stone,  old  and  grim, 
in  form  a  casual  imitation,  no  doubt,  of  the  front  of  the 
temple  of  Nike  Apteros,  with  a  recollection  of  the  Egyptians 
proclaimed  at  the  flanks.  The  frieze,  where  of  old  would 
prance  an  exuberant  processional  of  gods,  is,  in  this  case, 
bare  of  decoration,  but  upon  the  epistyle  is  written  in  simple, 
stern  letters  the  word  "EUSTON."  The  legend  reared  high 
by  the  gloomy  Pelagic  columns  stares  down  a  wide  avenue. 
In  short,  this  entrance  to  a  railway  station  does  not  in  any 
way  resemble  the  entrance  to  a  railway  station.  It  is  more 
the  front  of  some  venerable  bank.  But  it  has  another  dig 
nity,  which  is  not  born  of  form.  To  a  great  degree,  it  is 
to  the  English  and  to  those  who  are  in  England  the  gate 
to  Scotland. 

The  little  hansoms  are  continually  speeding  through  the 
gate,  dashing  between  the  legs  of  the  solemn  temple;  the 
four-wheelers,  their  tops  crowded  with  luggage,  roll  in  and 
out  constantly,  and  the  footways  beat  under  the  trampling 
of  the  people.  Of  course,  there  are  the  suburbs  and  a  hun 
dred  towns  along  the  line,  and  Liverpool,  the  beginning  of 
an  important  sea-path  to  America,  and  the  great  manufactur 
ing  cities  of  the  North;  but  if  one  stands  at  this  gate  in 
August  particularly,  one  must  note  the  number  of  men  with 

229 


230  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

gun-cases,  the  number  of  women  who  surely  have  Tam-o'- 
Shanters  and  plaids  concealed  within  their  luggage,  ready  for 
the  moors.  There  is,  during  the  latter  part  of  that  month, 
a  wholesale  flight  from  London  to  Scotland  which  recalls 
the  July  throngs  leaving  New  York  for  the  shore  or  the 
mountains. 

The  hansoms,  after  passing  through  this  impressive  por 
tal  of  the  station,  bowl  smoothly  across  a  courtyard  which  is 
in  the  center  of  the  terminal  hotel,  an  institution  dear  to 
most  railways  in  Europe.  The  traveler  lands  amid  a  swarm 
of  porters,  and  then  proceeds  cheerfully  to  take  the  cus 
tomary  trouble  for  his  luggage.  America  provides  a  con 
trivance  in  a  thousand  situations  where  Europe  provides  a 
man  or  perhaps  a  number  of  men,  and  the  work  of  our  brass 
check  is  here  done  by  porters,  directed  by  the  traveler  him 
self.  The  men  lack  the  memorv  of  the  check;  the  check 
never  forgets  its  identity.  Moreover,  the  European  rail 
ways  generously  furnish  the  porters  at  the  expense  of  the 
traveler.  Nevertheless,  if  these  men  have  not  the  invincible 
business  precision  of  the  check,  and  if  they  have  to  be  tipped, 
it  can  be  asserted  for  those  who  care  that  in  Europe  one-half 
of  the  populace  waits  on  the  other  half  most  diligently  and 
well. 

Against  the  masonry  of  a  platform,  under  the  vaulted  arch 
of  the  train-house,  lay  a  long  string  of  coaches.  They  were 
painted  white  on  the  bulging  part,  which  led  halfway  down 
from  the  top,  and  the  bodies  were  a  deep  bottle-green.  There 
was  a  group  of  porters  placing  luggage  in  the  van,  and  a 
great  many  others  were  busy  with  the  affairs  of  passengers, 
tossing  smaller  bits  of  luggage  into  the  racks  over  the  seats, 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  231 

and  bustling  here  and  there  on  short  quests.  The  guard  of 
the  train,  a  tall  man  who  resembled  one  of  the  first  Napoleon's 
veterans,  was  caring  for  the  distribution  of  passengers  into 
the  various  bins.  There  were  no  second-class  compartments; 
they  were  all  third  and  first-class. 

The  train  was  at  this  time  engineless,  but  presently  a  rail 
way  "flier,"  painted  a  glowing  vermilion,  slid  modestly  down 
and  took  its  place  at  the  head.  The  guard  walked  along 
the  platform,  and  decisively  closed  each  door.  He  wore  a 
dark  blue  uniform  thoroughly  decorated  with  silver  braid 
in  the  guise  of  leaves.  The  way  of  him  gave  to  this  business 
the  importance  of  a  ceremony.  Meanwhile  the  fireman  had 
climbed  down  from  the  cab  and  raised  his  hand,  ready  to 
transfer  a  signal  to  the  driver,  who  stood  looking  at  his  watch. 
In  the  interval  there  had  something  progressed  in  the  large 
signal  box  that  stands  guard  at  Euston.  This  high  house 
contains  many  levers,  standing  in  thick,  shining  ranks.  It 
perfectly  resembles  an  organ  in  some  great  church,  if  it  were 
not  that  these  rows  of  numbered  and  indexed  handles  typify 
something  more  acutely  human  than  does  a  keyboard.  It 
requires  four  men  to  play  this  organ-like  thing,  and  the 
strains  never  cease.  Night  and  day,  day  and  night,  these 
four  men  are  walking  to  and  fro,  from  this  lever  to  that 
lever,  and  under  their  hands  the  great  machine  raises  its 
endless  hymn  of  a  world  at  work,  the  fall  and  rise  of  sig 
nals  and  the  clicking  swing  of  switches. 

And  so  as  the  vermilion  engine  stood  waiting  and  looking 
from  the  shadow  of  the  curve-roofed  station,  a  man  in  the 
signal  house  had  played  the  notes  that  informed  the  engine 
of  its  freedom.  The  driver  saw  the  fall  of  those  proper 


232  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

semaphores  which  gave  him  liberty  to  speak  to  his  steel  friend. 
A  certain  combination  in  the  economy  of  the  London  and 
Northwestern  Railway,  a  combination  which  had  spread  from 
the  men  who  sweep  out  the  carriages  through  innumerable 
minds  to  the  general  manager  himself,  had  resulted  in  the 
law  that  the  vermilion  engine,  with  its  long  string  of  white 
and  bottle-green  coaches,  was  to  start  forthwith  toward 
Scotland. 

Presently  the  fireman,  standing  with  his  face  toward  the 
rear,  let  fall  his  hand.  "All  right,"  he  said.  The  driver 
turned  a  wheel,  and  as  the  fireman  slipped  back,  the  train 
moved  along  the  platform  at  the  pace  of  a  mouse.  To 
those  in  the  tranquil  carriages  this  starting  was  probably 
as  easy  as  the  sliding  of  one's  hand  over  a  greased  surface, 
but  in  the  engine  there  was  more  to  it.  The  monster  roared 
suddenly  and  loudly,  and  sprang  forward  impetuously.  A 
wrong-headed  or  maddened  draft-horse  will  plunge  in  its  col 
lar  sometimes  when  going  up  a  hill.  But  this  load  of  bur 
dened  carriages  followed  imperturbably  at  the  gait  of  turtles. 
They  were  not  to  be  stirred  from  their  way  of  dignified  exit 
by  the  impatient  engine.  The  crowd  of  porters  and  transient 
people  stood  respectful.  They  looked  with  the  indefinite 
wonder  of  the  railway-station  sight-seer  upon  the  faces  at  the 
windows  of  the  passing  coaches.  This  train  was  off  for 
Scotland.  It  had  started  from  the  home  of  one  accent  to 
the  home  of  another  accent.  It  was  going  from  manner  to 
manner,  from  habit  to  habit,  and  in  the  minds  of  these  Lon 
don  spectators  there  surely  floated  dim  images  of  the  tradi 
tional  kilts,  the  burring  speech,  the  grouse,  the  canniness, 
the  oat-meal,  all  the  elements  of  a  romantic  Scotland. 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  233 

The  train  swung  impressively  around  the  signal-house, 
and  headed  up  a  brick-walled  cut.  In  starting  this  heavy 
string  of  coaches,  the  engine  breathed  explosively.  It  gasped, 
and  heaved,  and  bellowed;  once,  for  a  moment,  the  wheels 
spun  on  the  rails,  and  a  convulsive  tremor  shook  the  great 
steel  frame. 

The  train  itself,  however,  moved  through  this  deep  cut  in 
the  body  of  London  with  coolness  and  precision,  and  the 
employees  of  the  railway,  knowing  the  train's  mission,  tacitly 
presented  arms  at  its  passing.  To  the  travelers  in  the  car 
riages,  the  suburbs  of  London  must  have  been  one  long  mon 
otony  of  carefully  made  walls  of  stone  or  brick.  But  after 
the  hill  was  climbed,  the  train  fled  through  pictures  of  red 
habitations  of  men  on  a  green  earth. 

But  the  noise  in  the  cab  did  not  greatly  change  its  mea 
sure.  Even  though  the  speed  was  now  high,  the  tremendous 
thumping  to  be  heard  in  the  cab  was  as  alive  with  strained 
effort  and  as  slow  in  beat  as  the  breathing  of  a  half-drowned 
man.  At  the  side  of  the  track,  for  instance,  the  sound  doubt 
less  would  strike  the  ear  in  the  familiar  succession  of  in 
credibly  rapid  puffs;  but  in  the  cab  itself,  this  land-racer 
breathes  very  like  its  friend,  the  marine  engine.  Everybody 
who  has  spent  time  on  shipboard  has  forever  in  his  head  a 
reminiscence  of  the  steady  and  methodical  pounding  of  the 
engines,  and  perhaps  it  is  curious  that  this  relative  which 
can  whirl  over  the  land  at  such  a  pace,  breathes  in  the 
leisurely  tones  that  a  man  heeds  when  he  lies  awake  at  night 
in  his  berth. 

There  had  been  no  fog  in  London,  but  here  on  the  edge 
of  the  city  a  heavy  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  driver  leaned 


234  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

aside  and  yelled  that  it  was  a  very  bad  day  for  traveling  on 
an  engine.  The  engine-cabs  of  England,  as  of  all  Europe, 
are  seldom  made  for  the  comfort  of  the  men.  One  finds 
very  often  this  apparent  disregard  for  the  man  who  does  the 
work — this  indifference  to  the  man  who  occupies  a  position 
which  for  the  exercise  of  temperance,  of  courage,  of  honesty, 
has  no  equal  at  the  altitude  of  prime  ministers.  The  Ameri 
can  engineer  is  the  gilded  occupant  of  a  salon  in  comparison 
with  his  brother  in  Europe.  The  man  who  was  guiding  this 
five-hundred-ton  bolt,  aimed  by  the  officials  of  the  railway 
at  Scotland,  could  not  have  been  as  comfortable  as  a  shrill 
gibbering  boatman  of  the  Orient.  The  narrow  and  bare 
bench  at  his  side  of  the  cab  was  not  directly  intended  for  his 
use,  because  it  was  so  low  that  he  would  be  prevented  by 
it  from  looking  out  of  the  ship's  port-hole  which  served  him 
as  a  window.  The  fireman,  on  his  side,  had  other  difficulties. 
His  legs  would  have  had  to  straggle  over  some  pipes  at  the 
only  spot  where  there  was  a  prospect,  and  the  builders  had 
also  strategically  placed  a  large  steel  bolt.  Of  course  it  is 
plain  that  the  companies  consistently  believe  that  the  men 
will  do  their  work  better  if  they  are  kept  standing.  The 
roof  of  the  cab  was  not  altogether  a  roof.  It  was  merely  a 
projection  of  two  feet  of  metal  from  the  bulkhead  which 
formed  the  front  of  the  cab.  There  were  practically  no  sides 
to  it,  and  the  large  cinders  from  the  soft  coal  whirled  around 
in  sheets.  From  time  to  time  the  driver  took  a  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket  and  wiped  his  blinking  eyes. 

London  was  now  well  to  the  rear.  The  vermilion  engine 
had  been  for  some  time  flying  like  the  wind.  This  train 
averages,  between  London  and  Carlisle  forty-nine  and  nine- 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  235 

tenth  miles  an  hour.  It  is  a  distance  of  299  miles.  There 
is  one  stop.  It  occurs  at  Crewe,  and  endures  five  minutes. 
In  consequence,  the  block  signals  flashed  by  seemingly  at 
the  end  of  the  moment  in  which  they  were  sighted. 

There  can  be  no  question  of  the  statement  that  the  road 
beds  of  English  railways  are  at  present  immeasurably  su 
perior  to  the  American  road-beds.  Of  course  there  is  a  clear 
reason.  It  is  known  to  every  traveler  that  peoples  of  the 
Continent  of  Europe  have  no  right  at  all  to  own  railways. 
Those  lines  of  travel  are  too  childish  and  trivial  for  expres 
sion.  A  correct  fate  would  deprive  the  Continent  of  its 
railways,  and  give  them  to  somebody  who  knew  about  them. 
The  continental  idea  of  a  railway  is  to  surround  a  mass  of 
machinery  with  forty  rings  of  ultra-military  law,  and  then 
they  believe  they  have  one  complete.  The  Americans  and 
the  English  are  the  railway  peoples.  That  our  road-beds 
are  poorer  than  the  English  road-beds  is  because  of  the  fact 
that  we  were  suddenly  obliged  to  build  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  miles  of  railway,  and  the  English  were  obliged 
to  build  slowly  tens  upon  tens  of  miles.  A  road-bed  from 
New  York  to  San  Francisco,  with  stations,  bridges,  and  cross 
ings  of  the  kind  that  the  London  and  Northwestern  owns 
from  London  to  Glasgow,  would  cost  a  sum  large  enough  to 
support  the  German  army  for  a  term  of  years.  The  whole 
way  is  constructed  with  the  care  that  inspired  the  creators 
of  some  of  our  now  obsolete  forts  along  the  Atlantic  coast. 
An  American  engineer,  with  his  knowledge  of  the  difficulties 
he  had  to  encounter — the  wide  rivers  with  variable  banks, 
the  mountain  chains,  perhaps  the  long  spaces  of  absolute 
desert;  in  fact,  all  the  perplexities  of  a  vast  and  somewhat 


236  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

new  country— would  not  dare  spend  a  respectable  portion 
of  his  allowance  on  seventy  feet  of  granite  wall  over  a  gully, 
when  he  knew  he  could  make  an  embankment  with  little  cost 
by  heaving  up  the  dirt  and  stones  from  here  and  there.  But 
the  English  road  is  all  made  in  the  pattern  by  which  the 
Romans  built  their  highways.  After  England  is  dead,  sa 
vants  will  find  narrow  streaks  of  masonry  leading  from  ruin 
to  ruin.  Of  course  this  does  not  always  seem  convincingly 
admirable.  It  sometimes  resembles  energy  poured  into  a 
rat-hole.  There  is  a  vale  between  expediency  and  the  con 
venience  of  posterity,  a  mid-ground  which  enables  men  surely 
to  benefit  the  hereafter  people  by  valiantly  advancing 
the  present;  and  the  point  is  that,  if  some  laborers  live  in 
unhealthy  tenements  in  Cornwall,  one  is  likely  to  view  with 
incomplete  satisfaction  the  record  of  long  and  patient  labor 
and  thought  displayed  by  an  eight-foot  drain  for  a  non 
existent,  impossible  rivulet  in  the  North.  This  sentence  does 
not  sound  strictly  fair,  but  the  meaning  one  wishes  to  convey 
is  that  if  an  English  company  spies  in  its  dream  the  ghost 
of  an  ancient  valley  that  later  becomes  a  hill,  it  would  con 
struct  for  it  a  magnificent  steel  trestle,  and  consider  that  a 
duty  had  been  performed  in  proper  accordance  with  the  com 
pany's  conscience.  But  after  all  is  said  of  it,  the  accidents 
and  the  miles  of  railway  operated  in  England  are  not  in  pro 
portion  to  the  accidents  and  the  miles  of  railway  operated 
in  the  United  States.  The  reason  can  be  divided  into  three 
parts — older  conditions,  superior  caution,  the  road-bed. 
And  of  these,  the  greatest  is  older  conditions. 

In  this  flight  toward  Scotland  one  seldom  encountered  a 
grade  crossing.    In  nine  cases  of  of  ten  there  was  either 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  237 

a  bridge  or  a  tunnel.  The  platforms  of  even  the  remote 
country  stations  were  all  of  ponderous  masonry  in  contrast 
to  our  constructions  of  planking.  There  was  always  to  be 
seen,  as  we  thundered  toward  a  station  of  this  kind,  a  num 
ber  of  porters  in  uniform,  who  requested  the  retreat  of  any 
one  who  had  not  the  wit  to  give  us  plenty  of  room.  And 
then,  as  the  shrill  warning  of  the  whistle  pierced  even  the 
uproar  that  was  about  us,  came  the  wild  joy  of  the  rush  past 
a  station.  It  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  triumphal 
procession  conducted  at  thrilling  speed.  Perhaps  there  was 
a  curve  of  infinite  grace,  a  sudden  hollow  explosive  effect 
made  by  the  passing  of  a  signal-box  that  was  close  to  the 
track,  and  then  the  deadly  lunge  to  shave  the  edge  of  a  long 
platform.  There  were  always  a  number  of  people  standing 
afar,  with  their  eyes  riveted  upon  this  projectile,  and  to  be 
on  the  engine  was  to  feel  their  interest  and  admiration  in  the 
terror  and  grandeur  of  this  sweep.  A  boy  allowed  to  ride 
with  the  driver  of  the  band-wagon  as  a  circus  parade  winds 
through  one  of  our  village  streets  could  not  exceed  for  ego 
tism  the  temper  of  a  new  man  in  the  cab  of  a  train  like  this 
one.  This  valkyric  journey  on  the  back  of  the  vermilion 
engine,  with  the  shouting  of  the  wind,  the  deep,  mighty  pant 
ing  of  the  steed,  the  gray  blur  at  the  track-side,  the  flowing 
quicksilver  ribbon  of  the  other  rails,  the  sudden  clash  as  a 
switch  intersects,  all  the  din  and  fury  of  this  ride,  was  of  a 
splendor  that  caused  one  to  look  abroad  at  the  quiet,  green 
landscape  and  believe  that  it  was  of  a  phlegm  quiet  beyond 
patience.  It  should  have  been  dark,  rain-shot,  and  windy; 
thunder  should  have  rolled  across  its  sky. 
It  seemed,  somehow,  that  if  the  driver  should  for  a  mo- 


238  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

ment  take  his  hands  from  his  engine,  it  might  swerve  from 
the  track  as  a  horse  from  the  road.  Once,  indeed,  as  he  stood 
wiping  his  fingers  on  a  bit  of  waste,  there  must  have  been 
something  ludicrous  in  the  way  the  solitary  passenger  re 
garded  him.  Without  those  finely  firm  hands  on  the  bridle, 
the  engine  might  rear  and  bolt  for  the  pleasant  farms  lying 
in  the  sunshine  at  either  side. 

This  driver  was  worth  contemplation.  He  was  simply  a 
quiet,  middle-aged  man,  bearded,  and  with  the  little  wrinkles 
of  habitual  geniality  and  kindliness  spreading  from  the  eyes 
toward  the  temple,  who  stood  at  his  post  always  gazing  out, 
through  his  round  window,  while,  from  time  to  time,  his 
hands  went  from  here  to  there  over  his  levers.  He  seldom 
changed  either  attitude  or  expression.  There  surely  is  no 
engine-driver  who  does  not  feel  the  beauty  of  the  business, 
but  the  emotion  lies  deep,  and  mainly  inarticulate,  as  it  does 
in  the  mind  of  a  man  who  has  experienced  a  good  and  beau 
tiful  wife  for  many  years.  This  driver's  face  displayed  no 
thing  but  the  cool  sanity  of  a  man  whose  thought  was  buried 
intelligently  in  his  business.  If  there  was  any  fierce  drama 
in  it,  there  was  no  sign  upon  him.  He  was  so  lost  in  dreams 
of  speed  and  signals  and  steam,  that  one  speculated  if  the 
wonder  of  his  tempestuous  charge  and  its  career  over  Eng 
land  touched  him,  this  impassive  rider  of  a  fiery  thing. 

It  should  be  a  well-known  fact  that,  all  over  the  world,  the 
engine-driver  is  the  finest  type  of  man  that  is  grown.  He  is 
the  pick  of  the  earth.  He  is  altogether  more  worthy  than 
the  soldier,  and  better  than  the  men  who  move  on  the  sea  in 
ships.  He  is  not  paid  too  much;  nor  do  his  glories  weight 
his  brow;  but  for  outright  performance,  carried  on  constantly, 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  239 

coolly,  and  without  elation,  by  a  temperate,  honest,  clear- 
minded  man,  he  is  the  further  point.  And  so  the  lone  human 
at  his  station  in  a  cab,  guarding  money,  lives,  and  the  honor 
of  the  road,  is  a  beautiful  sight.  The  whole  thing  is  aesthetic. 
The  fireman  presents  the  same  charm,  but  in  a  less  degree,  in 
that  he  is  bound  to  appear  as  an  apprentice  to  the  finished 
manhood  of  the  driver.  In  his  eyes,  turned  always  in  ques 
tion  and  confidence  toward  his  superior,  one  finds  this  qual 
ity;  but  his  aspirations  are  so  direct  that  one  sees  the  same 
type  in  evolution. 

There  may  be  a  popular  idea  that  the  fireman's  principal 
function  is  to  hang  his  head  out  of  the  cab  and  sight  inter 
esting  objects  in  the  landscape.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is 
always  at  work.  The  dragon  is  insatiate.  The  fireman  is 
continually  swinging  open  the  furnace-door,  whereat  a  red 
shine  flows  out  upon  the  floor  of  the  cab,  and  shoveling  in 
immense  mouthfuls  of  coal  to  a  fire  that  is  almost  diabolic  in 
its  madness.  The  feeding,  feeding,  feeding  goes  on  until  it 
appears  as  if  it  is  the  muscles  of  the  fireman's  arms  that 
are  speeding  the  long  train.  An  engine  running  over  sixty- 
five  miles  an  hour,  with  500  tons  to  drag,  has  an  appetite  in 
proportion  to  this  task. 

View  of  the  clear-shining  English  scenery  is  often  inter 
rupted  between  London  and  Crew  by  long  and  short  tunnels, 
the  first  one  was  disconcerting.  Suddenly  one  knew  that  the 
train  was  shooting  toward  a  black  mouth  in  the  hills.  It 
swiftly  yawned  wider,  and  then  in  a  moment  the  engine  dived 
into  a  place  inhabitated  by  every  demon  of  wind  and  noise. 
The  speed  had  not  been  checked,  and  the  uproar  was  so 
great  that  in  effect  one  was  simply  standing  at  the  center  of 


24o  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

a  vast,  black-walled  sphere.  The  tubular  construction  which 
one's  reason  proclaimed  had  no  meaning  at  all.  It  was  a 
black  sphere,  alive  with  shrieks.  But  then  on  the  surface 
of  it  there  was  to  be  seen  a  little  needle-point  of  light,  and 
this  widened  to  a  detail  of  unreal  landscape.  It  was  the 
world;  the  train  was  going  to  escape  from  this  cauldron,  this 
abyss  of  howling  darkness.  If  a  man  looks  through  the 
brilliant  water  of  a  tropical  pool,  he  can  sometimes  see  color 
ing  the  marvels  at  the  bottom  the  blue  that  was  on  the  sky 
and  the  green  that  was  on  the  foliage  of  this  detail.  And 
the  picture  shimmered  in  the  heat-rays  of  a  new  and  remark 
able  sun.  It  was  when  the  train  bolted  out  into  the  open  air 
that  one  knew  that  it  was  his  own  earth. 

Once  train  met  train  in  a  tunnel.  Upon  the  painting  in 
the  perfectly  circular  frame  formed  by  the  mouth  there  ap 
peared  a  black  square  with  sparks  bursting  from  it.  This 
square  expanded  until  it  hid  everything,  and  a  moment  later 
came  the  crash  of  the  passing.  It  was  enough  to  make  a 
man  lose  his  sense  of  balance.  It  was  a  momentary  inferno 
when  the  fireman  opened  the  furnace  door  and  was  bathed 
in  blood-red  light  as  he  fed  the  fires. 

The  effect  of  a  tunnel  varied  when  there  was  a  curve  in 
it.  One  was  merely  whirling  then  heels  over  head,  apparently 
in  the  dark,  echoing  bowels  of  the  earth.  There  was  no 
needle-point  of  light  to  which  one's  eyes  clung  as  to  a  star. 

From  London  to  Crew,  the  stern  arm  of  the  semaphore 
never  made  the  train  pause  even  for  an  instant.  There  was 
always  a  clear  track.  It  was  great  to  see,  far  in  the  distance, 
a  goods  train  whooping  smokily  for  the  north  of  England 
on  one  of  the  four  tracks.  The  overtaking  of  such  a  train 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  241 

was  a  thing  of  magnificent  nothing  for  the  long-strided  en 
gine,  and  as  the  flying  express  passed  its  weaker  brother,  one 
heard  one  or  two  feeble  and  immature  puffs  from  the  other 
engine,  saw  the  fireman  wave  his  hand  to  his  luckier  fellow, 
saw  a  string  of  foolish,  clanking  flat-cars,  their  freights  covered 
with  tarpaulins,  and  then  the  train  was  lost  to  the  rear. 

The  driver  twisted  his  wheel  and  worked  some  levers,  and 
the  rhythmical  chunking  of  the  engine  gradually  ceased. 
Gliding  at  a  speed  that  was  still  high,  the  train  curved  to  the 
left,  and  swung  down  a  sharp  incline,  to  move  with  an  im 
perial  dignity  through  the  railway  yard  at  Rugby.  There 
was  a  maze  of  switches,  innumerable  engines  noisily  pushing 
cars  here  and  there,  crowds  of  workmen  who  turned  to  look, 
a  sinuous  curve  around  the  long  train-shed,  whose  high  wall 
resounded  with  the  rumble  of  the  passing  express;  and  then, 
almost  immediately,  it  seemed,  came  the  open  country  again. 
Rugby  had  been  a  dream  which  one  could  properly  doubt. 
At  last  the  relaxed  engine,  with  the  same  majesty  of  ease, 
swung  into  the  high-roofed  station  at  Crewe,  and  stopped 
on  a  platform  lined  with  porters  and  citizens.  There  was  in 
stant  bustle,  and  in  the  interest  of  the  moment  no  one  seemed 
particularly  to  notice  the  tired  vermilion  engine  being  led 
away. 

There  is  a  five-minute  stop  at  Crewe.  A  tandem  of  en 
gines  slip  up,  and  buckled  fast  to  the  train  for  the  journey 
to  Carlisle.  In  the  meantime,  all  the  regulation  items  of 
peace  and  comfort  had  happened  on  the  train  itself.  The 
dining-car  was  in  the  center  of  the  train.  It  was  divided 
into  two  parts,  the  one  being  a  dining-room  for  first-class 
passengers,  and  the  other  a  dining-room  for  the  third-class 


242  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

passengers.  They  were  separated  by  the  kitchens  and  the 
larder.  The  engine,  with  all  its  rioting  and  roaring,  had 
dragged  to  Crewe  a  car  in  which  numbers  of  passengers  were 
lunching  in  a  tranquility  that  was  almost  domestic,  on  an 
average  menu  of  a  chop  and  potatoes,  a  salad,  cheese,  and  a 
bottle  of  beer.  Betimes  they  watched  through  the  windows 
the  great  chimney-marked  towns  of  northern  England.  They 
were  waited  upon  by  a  young  man  of  London,  who  was  sup 
ported  by  a  lad  who  resembled  an  American  bell-boy.  The 
rather  elaborate  menu  and  service  of  the  Pullman  dining-car 
is  not  known  in  England  or  on  the  Continent.  Warmed  roast 
beef  is  the  exact  symbol  of  a  European  dinner,  when  one  is 
traveling  on  a  railway. 

This  express  is  named,  both  by  the  public  and  the  com 
pany,  the  "Corridor  Train,"  because  a  coach  with  a  corridor 
is  an  unusual  thing  in  England,  and  so  the  title  has  a  dis 
tinctive  meaning.  Of  course,  in  America,  where  there  is 
no  car  which  has  not  what  we  call  an  aisle,  it  would  define 
nothing.  The  corridors  are  all  at  one  side  of  the  car.  Doors 
open  thence  to  little  compartments  made  to  seat  four, 
or  perhaps  six,  persons.  The  first-class  carriages  are  very 
comfortable  indeed,  being  heavily  upholstered  in  dark,  hard- 
wearing  stuffs,  with  a  bulging  rest  for  the  head.  The  third- 
class  accommodations  on  this  train  are  almost  as  comfort 
able  as  the  first-class,  and  attract  a  kind  of  people  that  are 
not  usually  seen  traveling  third-class  in  Europe.  Many 
people  sacrifice  their  habit,  in  the  matter  of  this  train,  to 
the  fine  conditions  of  the  lower  fare. 

One  of  the  feats  of  the  train  is  an  electric  button  in  each 
compartment.  Commonly  an  electric  button  is  placed  high 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  243 

on  the  side  of  the  carriage  as  an  alarm  signal,  and  it  is  un 
lawful  to  push  it  unless  one  is  in  serious  need  of  assistance 
from  the  guard.  But  these  bells  also  rang  in  the  dining- 
car,  and  were  supposed  to  open  negotiations  for  tea  or  what 
ever.  A  new  function  has  been  projected  on  an  ancient  cus 
tom.  No  genius  has  yet  appeared  to  separate  these  two 
meanings.  Each  bell  rings  an  alarm  and  a  bid  for  tea  or 
whatever.  It  is  perfect  in  theory  then  that,  if  one  rings  for 
tea,  the  guard  comes  to  interrupt  the  murder,  and  that  if 
one  is  being  murdered,  the  attendant  appears  with  tea.  A': 
any  rate,  the  guard  was  forever  being  called  from  his  reports 
and  his  comfortable  seat  in  the  forward  end  of  the  luggage- 
van  by  thrilling  alarms.  He  often  prowled  the  length  of 
the  train  with  hardihood  and  determination,  merely  to  meet 
a  request  for  a  sandwich. 

The  train  entered  Carlisle  at  the  beginning  of  twilight. 
This  is  the  border  town,  and  an  engine  of  the  Caledonian 
Railway,  manned  by  two  men  of  broad  speech,  came  to 
take  the  place  of  the  tandem.  The  engine  of  these  men  of 
the  North  was  much  smaller  than  the  others,  but  her  cab 
was  much  larger,  and  would  be  a  fair  shelter  on  a  stormy 
night.  They  had  also  built  seats  with  hooks  by  which  they 
hang  them  to  the  rail,  and  thus  are  still  enabled  to  see  through 
the  round  windows  without  dislocating  their  necks.  All  the 
human  parts  of  the  cab  were  covered  with  oilcloth.  The  wind 
that  swirled  from  the  dim  twilight  horizon  made  the  warm 
glow  from  the  furnace  to  be  a  grateful  thing. 

As  the  train  shot  out  of  Carlisle,  a  glance  backward  could 
learn  of  the  faint,  yellow  blocks  of  light  from  the  carriages 
marked  on  the  dimmed  ground.  The  signals  were  now  lamps, 


244  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  BOATS 

and  shone  palely  against  the  sky.  The  express  was  enter 
ing  night  as  if  night  were  Scotland. 

There  was  a  long  toil  to  the  summit  of  the  hills,  and  then 
began  the  booming  ride  down  the  slope.  There  were  many 
curves.  Sometimes  could  be  seen  two  or  three  signal  lights 
at  one  time,  twisting  off  in  some  new  direction.  Minus  the 
lights  and  some  yards  of  glistening  rails,  Scotland  was  only 
a  blend  of  black  and  weird  shapes.  Forests  which  one  could 
hardly  imagine  as  weltering  in  the  dewy  placidity  of  evening 
sank  to  the  rear  as  if  the  gods  had  bade  them.  The  dark 
loom  of  a  house  quickly  dissolved  before  the  eyes.  A  sta 
tion  with  its  lamps  became  a  broad  yellow  band  that,  to  a 
deficient  sense,  was  only  a  few  yards  in  length.  Below,  in  a 
deep  valley,  a  silver  glare  on  the  waters  of  a  river  made 
equal  time  with  the  train.  Signals  appeared,  grew,  and 
vanished.  In  the  wind  and  the  mystery  of  the  night,  it  was 
like  sailing  in  an  enchanted  gloom.  The  vague  profiles  of 
hills  ran  like  snakes  across  the  somber  sky.  A  strange  shape 
boldly  and  formidably  confronted  the  train,  and  then  melted 
to  a  long  dash  of  track  as  clean  as  sword-blades. 

The  vicinity  of  Glasgow  is  unmistakable.  The  flames  of 
pauseless  industries  are  here  and  there  marked  on  the  dis 
tance.  Vast  factories  stand  close  to  the  track,  and  reaching 
chimneys  emit  roseate  flames.  At  last  one  may  see  upon  a 
wall  the  strong  reflection  from  furnaces,  and  against  it  the 
impish  and  inky  figures  of  workingmen.  A  long,  prison-like 
row  of  tenements,  not  at  all  resembling  London,  but  in  one 
way  resembling  New  York,  appeared  to  the  left,  and  then 
sank  out  of  sight  like  a  phantom. 

At  last  the  driver  stopped  the  brave  effort  of  his  engine. 


THE  SCOTCH  EXPRESS  245 

The  400  miles  were  come  to  the  edge.  The  average  speed 
of  forty-nine  and  one-third  miles  each  hour  had  been  made, 
and  it  remained  only  to  glide  with  the  hauteur  of  a  great 
express  through  the  yard  and  into  the  station  at  Glasgow. 

A  wide  and  splendid  collection  of  signal  lamps  flowed 
toward  the  engine.  With  delicacy  and  care  the  train  clanked 
over  some  switches,  passes  the  signals,  and  then  there  shone 
a  great  blaze  of  arc-lamps,  defining  the  wide  sweep  of  the 
station  roof.  Smoothly,  proudly,  with  all  that  vast  dignity 
which  had  surrounded  its  exit  from  London,  the  express 
moved  along  its  platform.  It  was  the  entrance  into  a  gor 
geous  drawing-room  of  a  man  that  was  sure  of  everything. 

The  porters  and  the  people  crowded  forward.  In  their 
minds  there  may  have  floated  dim  images  of  the  traditional 
music-halls,  the  bobbies,  the  'buses,  the  'Arrys  and  'Arriets, 
the  swells  of  London. 

THE    END 


MODERN  LIBRARY  OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 
COMPLETE  LIST  OF  TITLES  IN 

THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 

For  convenience  in  ordering  please  ute  number  at  right  of  title 

AUTHOR  TITLE   AND   NUMBER 

AIKEN,  CONRAD  Modern  American  Poetry   127 

ANDERSON,    SHERWOOD  Poor  White    115 

ANDERSON,    SHERWOOD  Wincsburg,  Ohio   104 

ANDREYEV,  LEONID  The  Seven  That  Were  Hanged;  and 

the  Red  Laugh  45 

BALZAC  Short  Stories  40 

BAUDELAIRE  Prose  and  Poetry  70 

BEARDSLEY,  AUBREY  64  Reproductions  42 

BEEBE,  WILLIAM  Jungle  Peace  30 

BEERBOHM,  MAX  Zuleika  Dobson  1 1 6 

BIERCE,  AMBROSE  In  the  Midst  of  Life  133 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM  Poems  91 

BRONTE,  EMILY  Wuthering   Heights    106 
BROWN,   GEORGE  DOUGLAS  The  House  with  the  Green  Shutters  129 

BUTLER,    SAMUEL  Erewhon    136 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL  The  Way  of  All  Flesh  1 3 

CABELL,   JAMES  BRANCH  Beyond  Life   25 

CABELL,  JAMES  BRANCH  The  Cream  of  the  Jest   126 

CARPENTER,  EDWARD  Love's  Coming  of  Age  5  1 

CARROLL,  LEWIS  Alice  in  Wonderland,  etc.  79 

CELLINI,  BENVENUTO  Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  3 

CHEKHOV,  ANTON  Rothschild's  Fiddle,  etc.  3  1 

CHESTERTON,  G,  K.  Man  Who  Was  Thursday  35 

CRANE,  STEPHEN  Men,  Women  and  Boats  102 

D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE  Flame  of  Life  65 

D'ANNUNZIO,   GABRIELE  The  Child  of  Pleasure  98 

D'ANNUNZIO,   GABRIELE  The  Maidens  of  the  Rocks   118 

D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE  The  Triumph  of  Death  112 

DAUDET,  ALPHONSE  Sapho  85 

DEFOE,  DANIEL  Moll  Flanders   122 

DOSTOYEVSKY  Poor  People  10 

DOUGLAS,  NORMAN  Old  Calabria   141 

DOUGLAS,  NORMAN  South  Wind  5 

DOWSON,  ERNEST  Poems  and  Prose  74 


AUTHOR 

0REISER,   THEODORE 
DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE 
DUNSANY,    LORD 
DUNSANY,    LORD 
ELLIS,  HAVELOCK 
FABRE,  JEAN  HENRI 
FLAUBERT 
FLAUBERT 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRENSSEN,  GUSTAV 
GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE 
GEORGE,  W.  L. 
GILBERT,  W.  S. 
GILBERT,   W.    S. 
GISSING,   GEORGE 
GISSING,   GEORGE 
GONCOURT,  E.  AND  J.  DE 
GORKY,  MAXIM 

DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
HARDY,    THOMAS 
HARDY,   THOMAS 
HARDY,   THOMAS 
HAWTHORNE,   NATHANIEL 
HEARN,  LAFCADIO 
HECHT,  BEN 
HUDSON,  W.  H. 
HUDSON,  W.  H. 
HUXLEY,  ALDOUS 
IBSEN,   HENRIK 
IBSEN,  HENRIK 

IBSEN,   HENRIK 

JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  WILLIAM 
JOYCE  JAMES 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD 
LATZKO,  ANDREAS 


TITLE   AND   NUMBER 

Free,  and  Other  Stories  50 

Camille   69 

A  Dreamer's  Tales  34 

Book  of  Wonder  43 

The  New  Spirit  95 

The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar  107 

Madame  Bo  vary  28 

Temptation  of  St.   Anthony   92 

Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard   22 

The  Queen  Pedauque  110 

The  Red  Lily  7 

Thais    67 

Jorn  Uhl   101 

Mile.  De  Maupin  53 

A  Bed  of  Roses  75 

The  Mikado,   lolanthe,  etc.   26 

Pinafore  and  Other  Plays  1 1 3 

New  Grub  Street  125 

Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  46 

Renee  Mauperin    76 

Creatures  That  Once  Were  Men  and 

Other  Stories  48 

A  Night  in  the  Luxembourg  120 
A  Virgin  Heart   131 
Jude  the  Obscure  135 
The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge  17 
The  Return  of  the  Native  121 
The  Scarlet  Letter  93 
Some  Chinese  Ghosts  130 
Erik  Dorn  29 
Green  Mansions  89 
The  Purple  Land  24 
A  Virgin  Heart  131 
A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  etc.  6 
Hedda    Gabler,    Pillars    of    Society, 

The  Master  Builder  36 
The  Wild  Duck,  Rosmersholm,  The 

League  of  Youth  54       * 
Daisy  Miller,  etc.  63 
The  Philosophy  of  William  James   114 
Dubliners   124 
Soldiers  Three  71 
Men  in  War  88 


AUTHOR 


TITLE    AND    NUMBER 


LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LEWISOHN,    LUDWIG 
LOTI,  PIERRE 
MACY,   JOHN 
MAETERLINCK,    MAURICE 
DE   MAUPASSANT,   GUY 
DE  MAUPASSANT,   GUY 

DE   MAUPASSANT,   GUY 
MELVILLE,   HERMAN 
MEREDITH,    GEORGE 
MEREDITH,    GEORGE 
MEREJKOWSKI,   DMITRI 
MISCELLANEOUS 


MOLIERE 

&OORE,  GEORGE 
MORRISON,  ARTHUR 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 

NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
O'NEILL,  EUGENE 
PATER,  WALTER 
PATER,  WALTER 
PAINE,  THOMAS 
PEPYS,  SAMUEL 
POE.  EDGAR  ALLEN 
PREVOST,  ANTOINE 


The  Rainbow  128 

Sons  and  Lovers  109 

Upstream  123 

Mme.  Chrysantheme  94 

The    Spirit   of   American   Literature    5d 

Pelleas  and  Melisande,  etc.  1 1 

Love  and  Other  Stories  72 

Mademoiselle     Fifi,      and     Twelve 

Other  Stories  8 

Une  Vie  57 

Moby  Dick  1 1 9 

Diana  of  the  Crossways  14 

The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  134 

The  Romance  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  1  "*  % 

A  Modern  Book  of  Criticism  8 1 

Best  Ghost  Stories  73 

Best     American     Humorous     Short 

Stories  87 

Best  Russian  Short  Stories  1 8 

Contemporary   Science    99 

Evolution  in  Modern  Thought  37 

Outline  of  Psychoanalysis  66 

The  Woman  Question  59 

Plays   78 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man   16 

Tales  of  Mean  Streets  100 

Ecce     Homo     and     the     Birth     of 

Tragedy  68 

Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  9 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil  20 
Genealogy  of  Morals  62 
Seven  Plays  of  the  Sea  111 
The  Renaissance  86 
Marius  the  Epicurean  90 
Writings   108 
Samuel  Pepys'  Diary  103 
Best  Tales  82 
Manon  Ltscaut  85 


AUTHOR 

*ENAN,   ERNEST 

RODIN 

RUSSELL,  BERTRAND 

SALTUS,  EDGAR 

SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR 

SCHNITZLER,    ARTHUR 

SCHOPENHAUER 

SCHREINER,  OLIVE 

SHAW,  G.  B. 

SPINOZA 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  L. 

STIRNER,  MAX 

STRINDBERG,  AUGUST 

STRINDBERG,  AUGUST 

SUDERMANN,   HERMANN 

SWINBURNE,    CHARLES 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 

TOLSTOY,  LEO 

TOLSTOY,  LEO 

TURGENEV,  IVAN 
TURGENEV,  IVAN 
VAN  LOON,  HENDRIK  W. 
VILLON  FRANCOIS 
VOLTAIRE 
WELLS,  H.  G. 
WHITMAN,  WALT 
WILDE,  OSCAR 

WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 

WILSON,  WOODROW 
YEATS,  W.  B. 
ZOLA,  EMILE 


TITLE   AND   NUMBER 

The  Life  of  Jesus  140 

64   Reproductions  41 

Selected  Papers  of  Bertrand  Russell  137 

The  Imperial  Orgy    139 

Anatol,  Green  Cockatoo,  etc.  32 

Bertha  Garlan  39 

Studies  in  Pessimism  12 

The  Story  of  an  African  Farm  132 

An  Unsocial  Socialist  15 

The  Philosophy  of  Spinoza  60 

Treasure  Island  4 

The  Ego  and  His  Own  49 

Married  2 

Miss  Julie,  The  Creditor,  etc.  52 

Dame  Care  33 

Poems  23 

Complete  Poems  38 

Redemption  and  Other  Plays  77 

The    Death    of    Ivan    Ilyitch    and 

Four  Other  Stories  64 
Fathers  and  Sons  21 
Smoke  80 
Ancient  Man  105 
Poems  58 
Candide  47 
Ann  Veronica  27 
Poems   97 
An  Ideal  Husband,   A  Woman  of 

No  Importance  84 
De  Profundis   117 
Dorian  Gray  1 
Poems  19 

Fairy  Tales,  Poems  in  Prose  61 
Pen,  Pencil  and  Poison  96 
Salome,   The  Importance  of  Being 

Ernest,  etc.  83 

Selected  Addresses  and  Papers  55 
Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  44 
Nana    142 


